


Slaves To Any Semblance Of Touch

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detroit: Become Human Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Android Castiel (Supernatural), Androids, Depression, Detroit: Become Human Spoilers, Drinking to Cope, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Officer Dean Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Science Fiction, Sex Robots, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "How far would you go to be free?"The year is 2042. Technology has evolved to the point where human-like androids are everywhere. Invented by Chuck Shurley, the androids, which were christened "Angels", talk, walk, and behave like human beings. But they are considered nothing more than machines made to serve. When the Angels start behaving as if they have free will, events begin to spin out of control.Dean Winchester, a grizzled, alcoholic lieutenant that hates Angels, is assigned to the case.And his new partner? An emotionless Angel named Castiel.Clearly, they're a match made in Heaven.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 225
Kudos: 249
Collections: anonymous





	1. Cat's in the Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Detroit: Become Human.
> 
> As a tribute to D:BH finally becoming available on PC, I decided to write this AU. You don't have to be familiar with the story to follow. But there are distressing situations that happen in-game that you might want a forewarning on. In that same vein, please mind the tags. I don't want to trigger anyone but the tags might change abruptly as I write more. We're kinda flying blind. Sorry. This is just the downside of going on a chapter-by-chapter basis. If you see anything that needs to be tagged, don't be hesitate to yell at me in the comments.
> 
> ~~I plan on updating every Thursday—I'll put a more comprehensive list of dates in the endnotes—but please don't expect some unyielding schedule. I'm sorry in advance for being the world's worst at time management.~~
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and yes, the title is a Hozier lyric. Did you expect anything else from me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: dubious politics, unrestrained use of alcohol, segregation  
> thank you isangelousdenim for beta reading!

Dean sighed into his drink, the rain pouring outside Ellen’s bar. It'd been raining non-stop for weeks now, grass growing faster than a virgin's erection and stagnant water building up to form semi-ponds in the eroded uneven pavement. Apparently, there was enough of this so-called "run-off" to cause the bonafide government to declare a state of emergency. Fuck that shit. The real epidemic was the hundreds of corpses piling up all over Kansas City, Lawrence, and Wichita thanks to the recent leniency toward the war against drugs. Now, it was less of a war and more so pest control—Dean would know, he was a goddamn cop himself.

The rain made it a chilly November in dreary Kansas.

Oh, Kansas, the technological hub of North America. Dean was living in an entirely different world than the one he remembered from his childhood. If you had made a list of the most high-tech states in the United States in the early 2010s, Kansas wouldn't even be in the top ten. Now, all thanks to Chuck Shurley and Naomi Milton building their entire Angel empire in the Sunflower State, the Midwest was the heartland of industrial achievement. 

Just thinking about his youth, as a precursor or a passing thought, made his chest ache.

It had been exactly one year since Sam died.

A cough on his left distracted him from the melancholy spiral. Dean looked past Jo and up the wall of alcohol to the giant sign that read _Harvelle's_ in cursive with the only rule Ellen had ever enforced in her bar below it—No Angels Allowed.

He finished off his whiskey, sliding the empty glass to Jo. “Another round, wouldja?”

She tapped the half-empty amber bottle that was full not two hours ago. “I’m cutting you off after this one.” 

“As long as you call me a cab.” He grinned his stupidly-charming smile.

He knew as soon as she stopped serving him he’d go home and drink his own alcohol.

"I'm surprised you're not still riding around in that ancient POS." 

The Impala was sitting in his garage under a dusty tarp: She was practically retired these days. It was easier riding around in one of those plastic self-driving automatics than attracting unwanted attention by driving his—by today's standards—beyond classic, and cruising into ancient territory, Baby.

She was a beauty in her own day.

Now, she was obsolete. Just like himself. An obsolete cop, an obsolete brother, and an obsolete citizen. Bottom of the barrel, really. The only people who had it worse off were the goddamn homeless that crowded the streets by day and slept on them by night. But it wouldn't be a surprise to anybody, with the same consistent bad luck he’d been having and a couple of years time, if Dean ended up right out there with them. Hell, half the force was—ever since the automaton officer replacement program went through.

He could just picture his dad, as ruthless in spirit as the day he died (maybe not as physically strong, but that was hardly his fault), standing over him with a downturned mouth. He’d ream Dean a new one for feeling so sorry for himself. He'd tell him he was being a little bitch. He'd tell him that he wasn’t treating the Impala right. And Dean, choking down his fifth drink in sixty minutes, would just let out a watery laugh. He couldn’t save his brother. He could barely keep his job. And all his friends—Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Benny, and even goddamn Charlie—they couldn't stand him or his pity party.

The Impala, the goddamn car that he lived out of for most of his life, the car he inherited for his sixteenth birthday, the car Sam died in, it was the least of his problems.

In reality, people were dying. People that _mattered_.

And Bobby wanted him to head the investigation. That was the gist he had gotten before he stomped out of the station and took the first bus to the Roadhouse. He guessed it had something to do with the drug dilemma. And he did _not_ want to be assigned a case dealing with fucking narcotics.

A spurt of static caught his attention from the box TV Ellen had situated in the far right corner of the bar. 

Cassie Robinson, Kansas's sweetheart, beamed fakely from her seated position. 

Her co-host spoke first, "Up tonight: China earthquake kills 43,000 people, a cybersecurity expert warns that your Angel could be hacked, and finally, what happened to Chuck Shurley, the Man of the Century? But first, are our brains changing due to our technology? Over to you, Cassie."

"Thanks, Lydia," Cassie turned her stare to the camera, "Most people spend more time talking to Hosts, smartphones, tablets, and entertainment systems than they do other people. A recent study has found that this kind of talk is characterized by instructions and orders rather than persuasion, humor, or intimacy. That adjustment to our everyday speech is altering our brains, with persuasion skills getting weaker through lack of use."

Dean hated watching the news. Everything always seemed so terrible and hopeless. He had enough of that bullshit in his own life. He didn’t need a play-by-play on what the current president was fucking up—and boy was that a shit show. Especially with the threat of a third world war. People were concerned about the fucking draft. That was mind-numbing. In 2042, the draft was a concern. Fuck. Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was why he didn’t watch the news.

"This is especially true of younger generations, fostering a generation of adolescents with highly limited social skills. In the same study, young people were found to have developed very different communication centers in their brains. Employers have long complained about the difficulty in finding graduates who know how to influence and convince others. But with people, especially young people, spending more and more time with their machines, it's difficult to see how the situation will improve.”

Jo slid over a full drink to distract him. "What's got you so down, anyway? Besides Cassie Robinson's regular Debbie Downer routine."

"She _is_ startlingly depression for the six o'clock news, isn't she?" Dean huffed.

Jo just stared at him expectantly.

"Let's just say that the more time I spend with humans, the more I appreciate Bones."

"And to think you nearly shot the thing when Sam brought it home."

She laughed a little before walking toward the opposite side of the bar. 

Hearing Sam's name out loud felt like a spear to his chest. 

Before he could withdraw too far into his own head, Dean heard the bar’s door bang open.

The person stopped right in front of the threshold as the door closed behind him. Dean glanced up at the guy and barely managed not to scoff. Normally, androids were unmistakable from humans. One would be forced to look for their LED or their required uniform to tell them apart. But this Angel, with it's stiff posture and robotic facial quirks, was a dead give away. He watched discreetly as the android scanned the bar, staring at each face until it got to Dean.

Quickly, he turned back to his whiskey.

But it was too late, the android was already stalking over to him.

Dean heard one of the other patron's mutter, “Shit, I thought they weren’t allowed in here.”

“Lieutenant Winchester, my name is Castiel.” It's voice was controlled, calm, and deep. “I’m the Angel sent by HostLife. I looked for you at the station but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”

Castiel. It wasn't the weirdest name he'd heard an Angel be called. His neighbor, an elderly woman with no children to take care of her, owned an android named Samandriel. They came preprogrammed with the biblical names—which was part of the brand—but Mildred eventually settled with renaming her Angel Alfie.

“What do you want?” Dean asked flatly.

“You were assigned a case earlier this evening. A homicide involving a HostLife android.” It didn’t pause between sentences. Like it was inefficient or a waste of time to give Dean a breath between each onslaught of information. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.” 

“Well, I don’t need any assistance.” He didn’t spare it a single glance. Why should he? It wasn't like it had feelings he could hurt. “Especially not from a Spock wannabe from planet Vulcan. So just be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here.” 

A few seconds and a gulp of chest-hair-sprouting alcohol later, the android finally responded, “I understand that some people are not comfortable in the presence of androids, but I am—”

“I am perfectly comfortable,” Dean interrupted, tightening his hand into a white-knuckled fist around his glass. 

"My orders stipulate that I have to assist you."

"You know where you can shove your orders?"

"No. Where?" It asked completely clueless.

Dean flushed, ears burning, thrown off balance. "Nevermind." 

“I think you should stop drinking and come with me. It’ll make life easier for both of us.”

Dean ignored it, taking a long sip and finishing off his drink. He could sit here forever, waiting for the android to take a hint and leave him alone. Tipping his glass upside down, he rested his chin in his palm. 

With his attention shifting from the android, he could feel the tension in the air. Thick and keyed up, it was coming from all the other customers in the bar. They were squeamish from the android’s presence. Little miss Joanna Beth, by some sordid miracle, hadn't noticed the walking talking HostLife billboard yet.

Like an unspoken jinx, Jo looked up from making a masterly crafted daiquiri that no man would have ordered.

“You know what? How about I buy you one for the road. What do you say?” It calculated, turning toward an unimpressed Jo. “Bartender, the same again, please!”

Her hands settled on her hips, “I’m not giving him another, Junkless. He's already drunk half a bottle dry. Now, unless you want this to get ugly, get the Hell outta my bar and stop harassing my customers.”

Smirking into his palm, Dean debated calling off Jo’s attempt at back up. But then again, he was sure Castiel had it handled. Besides, the Harvelle's had their own personal history with androids. There was a reason the bar was segregated and Dean was smart enough to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Lieutenant Winchester is under the legal drinking and driving limit. He has a high tolerance,” The android said, LED blinking the same bright blue as it’s eyes. “And while I’m sure you’re only doing your job, that’s what I’m doing as well. Please serve your human patron a drink and we’ll both be on our way.” 

“See that Jo? Wonders of technology.” Dean patted Castiel on the shoulder. “Make it a double.”

Jo glared at him but refilled his glass. “Mom’s gonna get an earful, Dean. Finish your drink, take your socket fucker, and get out.” 

As soon as she turned away, he downed the drink and sighed in relief.

He gave the android a solid once over, staring directly into it’s eyes without any awkwardness (since it wasn't human) and taking in it's appearance. The first androids were perfect in both face and expressions, sorta like the unnatural photoshop doll look he remembered from early turn of the century animations. But HostLife realized shortly after the first batch that the precise ratios made people uncomfortable due to the uncanny valley. So, they started making the androids have imperfections. 

At least, that's what Dean was taught.

He realized right away that this android had a perfect face, symmetrical without any blemishes. It’s hair was dark, thick, and wind-blown. With sunken cheeks, an angular nose, and an almost dreamy quality—Clearly, HostLife spared no expenses when it came to pretty-boy androids. Said android’s LED changed rapidly from blue to orange and back to blue as Dean finished his sweep, it's face remaining like marble. 

Dean quirked his lip, “So, what’s this about a homicide?”


	2. Fortunate Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: corpse described in gory detail, sepulchers, shrines, other procedural crime nonsense  
> no beta this time!

His ears were numb to the sirens, the self-parking car doing its job as they pulled up to the crime scene. Dean looked out the window and watched the red and blue lights reflect off the wet and oily pavement. He held his breath the entire ride. Castiel, as still and silent and inhuman as Dean expected, sitting next to him, hadn't tried to start any conversation. And for that, Dean was grateful. He didn't need the anniversary of Sam’s death to be any more painful—especially the socially awkward sort of painful.

Dean figured he'd leave the android in the car on some variety of IRL standby.

"You wait here. I'll be right back."

Castiel tilted it's head, LED whirling between colors. "My orders are to accompany you to the crime scene, Lieutenant."

"Listen, I don't give a fuck about your orders," Dean made his voice firm as he opened the door, "I told you to wait here, so you shut the fuck up, and listen."

He stepped out into the rain, the android properly scolded. There was a group of civilians all crowded around the restricted area, with umbrellas and hoodies and galoshes. Some stood on their tiptoes just to get a better look. Four or five squad cars blocked off the rest of the street. Dean squeezed through the reporters, all holding microphones and asking him questions he didn't have time for: "Sir, can you confirm that this is a homicide?"

Dean held his arm up to block the lens of the camera, shouting over the loud wind, "I'm not confirming anything!"

"Typical KCPD, you don't tell us shit!"

Ignoring the insults, he made his way through the press and found Benny on the right side of the police tape.

"Evening, brother. We were starting to think you weren't gonna show."

Dean nodded, "Well, that was the plan until—"

"Androids are not allowed beyond this point," He heard behind him.

Raising an eyebrow at Benny, he shouted over his shoulder, "It's with me, Henrikson!" Castiel walked over to him a moment later with an innocent expression. Dean crossed his arms, "I told you to stay in the car. What in the fuck are you doing?"

"Your instructions contradicted my order, Lieutenant,” It said, hair damp and skin riddled with water droplets.

He pointed his finger into it's face. "You don't talk, you don't touch anything, and you stay the hell outta my way, comprende?"

"Yes," Castiel agreed easily. Too easily.

Benny cleared his throat and Dean turned back to him. "As I was saying, that was the plan until this asshole found me." 

"So," Benny teased good-naturedly. "Got yourself an android, huh?"

"Oh, very funny. Just tell me what happened."

When they stepped onto the broken down porch, Dean scrutinized the outside of the house. Only two of four glass windows remained intact, rippled and sun-spotted. The other two were boarded up. The roof had a dimple in it. Like the house had self-consciously curled into itself. The yard was overgrown, grass too tall and weeds suffocating every inch of the ground. There was a lean-to shed by the porch, firewood nestled within to keep dry from the rain. If he hadn't seen it before, it was obvious now that this house wasn't a HostHome.

"We got a call around eight from the landlord. The tenant hadn't paid his rent for a few months, so he thought he'd drop by, see what's going on." Benny led them inside. "That's when he found the body."

The smell was overwhelming. "Oh, God."

"It was even worse before we opened the windows. Or what's left of the windows," Benny grimaced, looking down at his tablet. "The victim's name is Marv Corp. He was a former writer and current videographer. One of his online aliases was Metatron. He has a record for theft and aggravated assault. According to the neighbors he was kind of a loner. Stayed inside most of the time, they hardly ever saw him."

"The state he's in, it wasn't worth calling out everyone in the middle of the night." Dean kneeled down next to the body, "Could've waited till morning."

"I'd say he's been there for a good three weeks. We'll know more when the coroner gets here," Benny glossed over Dean's complaining, he'd heard it more than enough times not to dwell. He motioned toward the floor, "There's a kitchen knife over here. Probably the murder weapon."

Dean held out his hand and Benny gave him a flashlight. "Any sign of a break-in?"

"Nope. The landlord said the front door was locked from the inside, all the windows were either locked or boarded up. The killer must've gone out the back way, next to the kitchen."

Dean looked at the decaying corpse with interest. His pudgy stomach was all but deflated from the overabundant amount of stab wounds and rotting meat. From his state of decay, it was obvious he'd been here a while. It was absolutely repulsive and stomach-churning. And on the wall above the remains, in perfect calligraphy-font, was an eerie two-word manifesto. It was a contrast to the highest degree. He wondered distractedly what Castiel thought. 

"What do we know about his android?" Dean asked, staring at the so-called death note.

"Not much. The neighbors confirmed he had one. But it wasn't here when we arrived," Benny threw his thumb toward the door, his other hand covering his nose and mouth, "I gotta get some air. Make yourself at home, Brother. I'll be outside if you need me."

Dean stood up, pocketing the flashlight, his knees throbbing. "What about you, Cas?"

The android replied, "My name is Castiel."

"Got anything useful to say?" Dean asked.

"Everything I say is calculated through algorithmic learning," Castiel said, haughty. "All of my dialogue is useful."

Dean tapped his chin dramatically. "But if I already knew that information about androids, is it really useful? I believe you just disproved your point by explaining it."

"And I believe you needed a refresher," Castiel didn't spare him a glance.

"Sounds like faulty logic to me," Dean said smugly, pretty sure he won whatever unspoken debate they'd initiated.

"If we can get back to the topic at hand, there are no fingerprints on the knife."

"So that either means our killer was wearing gloves, he took the time to wipe them off, or it was an android." Dean looked over at Castiel and reared back, "—Holy fucking shit _,_ what the hell are you doing?" 

Castiel had touched the dried crusty gore from the knife and brought it up to his mouth.

"I'm sorry. I should've warned you. I'm analyzing the blood. I can check samples in real-time."

"Okay, just—" Dean waved his hands around, very flustered, "Don't put any more evidence in your mouth."

"How else will we identify the owner of the blood?" Castiel tilted his head.

"Wait for the coroner like a normal fucking person? Goddammit, I can't believe this shit," He sighed, directing the android's attention toward the words on the wall, "Alright, Happy Meal, what can you tell me about this short-handed mission statement. I mean, each letter is perfect. It's way too neat for a human to write, especially after killing a man with all that hand-shaking adrenaline."

"Free will," Castiel read, squinting appraisingly. "It's HostLife font."

"I wonder if it's written in the victim's blood." Dean worried his bottom lip.

Castiel side-eyed him. "If you will allow it, Lieutenant. I can tell you now."

"Go ahead," Dean yielded immediately, too goddamn curious. "But I'm not watching."

A few seconds later, Castiel said, "Positive match with Marv Corp. The killer used the victim's own blood."

"Nice. You get any readings on the actual corpse?" Dean asked, tracking the android's movements as it leaned closer to the decomposing flesh. "Whatever you do, don't put a piece of him in your mouth."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. From his facial features alone we know his identity," Castiel assured, like a complete smartass. "He was stabbed twenty-eight times."

"Yeah, it seems like the killer really had it in for him." Dean frowned at the body.

Castiel tilted his head toward the kitchen, "We should go examine the escape route. The sooner we find out how the Angel fled, the sooner we'll catch it."

They walked over to the back door, next to the kitchen, unlatching it and stepping out onto the back porch.

Dean saw deep footprints in the muddy backyard. "The front door was locked from the inside. The killer must've gone out this way."

"There are no footprints, other than officer Lafitte's size ten shoes," Castiel disagreed.

"Well, this happened weeks ago," Dean pointed out, "Tracks could've faded."

"No, this type of soil would have retained a trace." Castiel turned to go back inside, "Nobodies been out here for a long time."

When they get back inside, Dean gestured toward the kitchen's linoleum floor. "Speaking of things that don't make a lick of sense, we've got a bat in the kitchen with a dent in it, too."

Castiel nodded, turning and walking away, speaking belatedly, "I'll check it out." 

With the android gone, Dean leaned down to run his eyes over the corpse like a fine-tooth comb, immediately spotting the too-neon-red-to-be-blood fibers embedded beneath Marv's fingernails. Instantly, he knew what it was. He'd seen it too many times not to know. They arrested at least twenty people this week for possession. Ever since androids hit the market, this drug had followed. The main component of making Angel’s tick. Humans bastardized it past machine use and mixed it in with their own brew of narcotics.

He yelled loud enough for Castiel to hear him. "Demon's blood. Seems our friend Marv liked to party."

His eyes gravitated to the side table that had been flipped over sometime during Marv's backward crab-walk shuffle, Dean saw a few things had been disturbed from their perch: a flyer for Heaven's Garden, a pipe for demon's blood, a VR headset with an oily headband, and a cheap magazine with the headline "Did HostLife's new product trick the Google algorithm?"—Dean flipped through a few pages but tossed the thing back onto the ground with an eye roll when he saw, "If you try to search _HostLife shady_ or _HostHome shady_ , the search results will potentially shift from showing controversies to only showing their newly released product of automated window tints. Was this an accident or a carefully thought out marketing scheme?". That sounded entirely too similar to John's level of cuckoo-nest for him to take seriously.

After messing around, not finding anything more substantial, he stepped into the kitchen where Castiel was waiting.

"I think I've gathered enough evidence to understand what happened."

"Oh yeah? Go ahead and dazzle me, Robocop," Dean grinned at his own joke, leaning against the one clean wall.

"I don't understand your references." It looked confused.

Dean dramatically grabbed his chest. "That's a pop culture sin, Cas. Especially for an android such as yourself."

"Yes, well, there are better things to add to my memory card," Castiel said shortly.

"Was that an insult, Cas? I'm hurt." He couldn't help but tease. "And to think, I was starting to like you—what with the whole drink-buying thing."

"Can I explain how Marv Corp was murdered?" Castiel asked testily.

Dean rolled his eyes. What had he expected, trying to joke around with a fucking android? One would have better luck trying to explain humor to a brick wall.

"Go on."

"It all started in the kitchen," Castiel stated.

At least the android figured out that much. Dean laughed a little at the simplicity of the one-line narrative. "Well, there are obvious signs of a struggle. With the bat and upturned chairs. Plus, that's where the murder weapon came from. . . but the human detectives figured all that out long before we got here. You got anything actually valuable?"

"I think the victim attacked his android with the bat," Castiel embellished, unbothered by Dean's scrutiny, pointing toward the weapon, "The only DNA left on the object was Marv Corp's and it was his fingerprints. There was no blood in or around the dent and whatever he hit had the perfect diameter of a human or an android skull."

"That sounds about right," Dean conceded. 

"The android grabbed the knife from the block and stabbed the victim." 

Dean picked up the underlying message. "So the Angel was trying to defend itself, right?"

"Essentially," Castiel said. "The victim then fled to the living room. He was already injured by this time, so he was back peddling and tossing chairs to attempt to slow down the android. But in his endeavor to escape he tripped over an overturned chair, knocking over his coffee table, and providing enough time for the android to stab him two more times in his stomach. As he landed in his final position, the same one he's in now, the android murdered the victim by stabbing him twenty-five more times. It collapsed his lungs and severed some internal organs. Either he bled out first or his collapsed lung made it so he couldn't breathe and he eventually suffocated to death."

"Your theory's not totally ridiculous," Dean said. "But it doesn't tell us where the android went."

"It was damaged by the bat which means it must have left behind some grace: the blue fluid that runs through Angel’s bio components. I believe you found a tainted version of it earlier mixed with other human drugs. You called it demon's blood. Well, in its pure form it evaporates after a few hours and becomes invisible to the human eye," Castiel alleged.

"But I bet you can still see it, can't you?" Dean stepped away from the wall, smirking.

"Correct," The android inclined it's head imperiously.

"Well, what are we standing around for? See if you can find a trail."

"We might find a fallen Angel at the end," Castiel warned, already scanning the kitchen.

"No shit." He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I found some drops," Castiel honed in it like a bloodhound. "It leads out to the hallway."

He followed Castiel as he led them toward the bathroom. A few forensic investigators were already sweeping the area. If they would have gotten here earlier (if Dean hadn’t fucked around like a bitch), he bet they would’ve found more evidence before everyone else and their mothers stomped through the crime scene like elephants. Castiel pointed at the shower and Dean rested his hand behind his back on his .45 caliber. He sidestepped a black light and yanked open the shower curtain to reveal the mother of all shrines: a wooden figurine over the drain, a bunch of ones and zeros, and a few dozen scratches of the same words carved into the wall—Croatoan. 

"Croatoan?" Dean let go of his gun. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"It's from Roanoke. One of the first English colonies in America," Castiel supplied.

Dean snapped his fingers as he recognized the textbook answer. "Oh yeah, yeah, I remember that. It was all we learned about during American history in high school. The only thing they left behind was a single word carved in a tree.” 

“I’m surprised,” Castiel said. “I figured you’d have slept through most of your classes.”

“Why cause I dropped out?” Dean glared. Fuck the stereotype that all high school dropouts were lazy punks. Dean dropped out because his Dad needed him. He eventually got his GED. And now he was a goddamn lieutenant. That was pretty good in today's economy. Maybe not the most stellar job security. . . But he didn’t want to get into that mess with a fucking Angel, so he refocused back on the shrine. “Croatoan. Why the hell would our android carve Croatoan, of all the words, into our shower shrine? I mean, the entire Roanoke colony was wiped out overnight.”

“Maybe that has something to do with it," Castiel suggested. “The Angel was trying to tie the mystery with it’s own murder?”

Dean wasn’t convinced. “Maybe.”

“The numbers are binary,” Castiel pointed out, scanning them with it’s blue eyes.

The numbers were a long stretch of ones and zeros. It made him dizzy to look at.

“Can you translate?”

“It says princeps tenebrarum.” Castiel squinted, “. . . which is Latin.”

“So, out of the fire pan and into the fire?” Dean sighed, “We swapped out one encryption for another.”

Castiel shook it’s head, LED whirling as it processed, “I have a dead language appendix, but even if we looked it up online, word for word, it would be easy to find—this is a relatively known Latin phrase.”

“What is it?”

“Prince of Darkness.” 

“Well, that’s not fucking ominous.“ How were Croatoan and Prince of Darkness connected?

"The grace leads back out to the hallway," Castiel nudged him.

"Okay." Dean was still hung up on the word, but he moved to follow the android. "Let's hope we find a wingless Angel."

They walked back out to the hallway and Castiel froze. "It suddenly stopped."

Dean looked around, checking the walls. 

"I was on a case once where a blood trail led us all the way out onto a street corner. When the trail abruptly ended everyone was confused. How did our guy just disappear? But I had an idea. If the perp didn't keep walking, what other direction could he have gone? It turns out there was a manhole.” Dean raised an eyebrow, “Because when you've expended all your other options, what other way is there to go but down?"

"Maybe, in this case, it's up," Castiel said, pointing up at an attic hatch.

"Good work," Dean patted Castiel on the back. "Boost me up, Scottie?"

It shook it's head. "It would be safer for me to assess the situation and deal with the android."

"Hey, fine by me," Dean shrugged, grabbing one of the knocked down chairs from the kitchen for Castiel to stand on. "As long as we get the fallen Angel, I don't give a damn who assesses and who deals."

He watched as Castiel stepped onto the seat, reaching up to push the loft's cover out of the way. There were a few moments of hesitation, ten seconds or so, while Castiel scanned the area. The android boosted itself up from there, footsteps creaking across the floorboards as it explored the attic. Dust fell from the ceiling as the android stepped from support beams to rafters.

Folding his hands together, Dean felt his heartbeat sped up. As much as he tried to be nonchalant about letting the android go up by itself, it was eating him alive to be left behind like this. Dean knew, logically, that Castiel was superior to him—physicality just being one fraction of the perfect android pie. But as a forty-something-year-old police officer who had lived through his fair share of shit, he liked to think that he could keep up with any Host.

When they were first introduced to the market, back before they were humanized or an algorithm had been in place, HostLife androids had been a miracle of technology. A revolution to human life on a broad scale that no one had expected. There were more than a million androids in circulation today (at least, that's what he heard on a podcast), helping humans from everyday tasks to being on the front line of many militaries. There were android doctors, who had the precision of a hundred humans. There were android musicians, owned by corporations that bask in the profit of puppet singers. There were android sex workers, no gray area in prostitution when the androids had no thoughts or emotions.

It was hard to believe that androids had only been on the market for two decades. The United States government had passed the American Android Act in 2029, which required them to wear their mandated clothes and keep their LEDs. But as man's subservient machine, it was up in the air regarding their placement in society.

Sam had been a hippy-dippy that went to Stanford to represent android rights. Dean smiled sadly at the memory of his brother. John had been so angry at him, telling Sam it was a waste of an education. Androids had never fought back against their masters. They never exhibited any free will. They were as sentient as a calculator.

Now, with all the shit he'd seen, Dean didn't know who was right anymore. 

Unlike Castiel up there, the first models that were introduced had white outer shells with wing circuits on their backs. That was how they were first marketed, like actual Angels. Flawless snow-white faces with no imperfections. They'd been freaky, to say the least. Now, HostLife tried to make them as realistic as possible, keeping the initial branding with names but wanting the androids to blend in as seamlessly as possible with surrounding humans.

He heard a thump from above him.

Lifting his head, he raised his voice, "Castiel, what the fuck is going on up there?"

A few seconds of nothing . . .

. . . Then Castiel yelled back, "It's here, Lieutenant!"

"Holy shit," He could feel his eyes widening. He shouted over his shoulder, "Victor, Benny, get your asses in here now! Come on!" 


	3. Wanted Dead or Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: domestic abuse described in this chapter (i.e. cigarette burns, sexual assault, emotional manipulation), questionable interrogation tactics, self-harm, gendered slurs, and dehumanization  
> thank you isangelousdenim for beta reading!

Outside it was still drizzling.

Inside, however, it was nice and dry.

The police department was brightly lit and warm. The front part of the office was on the smaller side—a little waiting area with folding chairs, gray laminate flooring, the stench of peppermint and nicotine lingering in the air, and an obnoxiously large clock ticking loudly. Past the reception area was a long counter where the public and civilians were first handled. Charlie, the best goddamn secretary the force could've asked for, sat there and dealt with hysterical people screaming at her.

In the main room sat seven desks. The first three were for the regular walk-the-beat officers: Gordon, Pamela, and Donna. The fourth was for Victor, their detective. The fifth was for Benny, their Sargent. The sixth was for Dean, the Lieutenant. The seventh was for Bobby, the Captain. And then, above Bobby, was their Chief of police Jody. She only visited their station every once in a blue moon (as she had jurisdiction over more than just Kansas City's division), so her desk was wherever she goddamn pleased. Usually, she ended up camping out at Bobby's station, though—which was at the very back of the room, surrounded by glass and shitty office blinds.

Beyond that, if you took a left, you'd either end up going toward the break room or the evidence lock-up. 

If you took a right you end up at the cells. There were five cells at KCPD, one was less guarded and they called it the drunk tank. The other four had bulletproof glass, a mat on top of a fold-down metal slab, and a squat toilet in their center. At the end of that hall was the interrogation room—which was where Dean was right now.

"Why'd you kill 'em?" Dean leaned forward on his elbows. "What happened before you took that knife?"

Marv's android remained silent and still.

Capturing the thing had been no sweat. It hadn't even caused a commotion. As soon as the three officers on scene had surrounded it, climbing through the hatch with mild degrees of success, the Android had complied. It was too simple. And that in itself made Dean's skin itch. It was like it'd just given up. It got into the squad car, went to the station, and sat at the interrogation table—all without talking or fighting back.

Dean looked over toward the two-way mirror and raised his eyebrows. They weren't getting anywhere.

He tried again anyway, "How long were you in the attic? Why didn't you even try and run away?"

Nothing. He snapped his fingers in front of it's face. No response. Getting fed up, he slammed his hands down on the table. "Say something, goddamnit!"

Marv's android stayed resolute, not even a twitching muscle. 

Dean chuckled darkly, "Fuck it. I'm outta here." Patience had never been his virtue.

Leaving the interrogation room, Dean slumped against the wall. Time to face the music. He walked toward the observation room, flashing his laminate, pressing his thumb into the door scanner and entering. Three people stood still inside—Benny, Victor, and Gordon. And then there was Castiel in the corner. Dean started venting before the door fully shut behind him, "We're wasting our time interrogating a machine. We're getting nothing outta it."

"Can't you take out it's memory chip or something?" Benny asked, pressing his lips together.

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "We don't have anyone who can operate on one of these things and HostLife wouldn't help. They don't want anyone snooping around into the inner-workings of their little Angels. Besides, those chips are deep in their melons and one _red wire when it should’ve been the blue wire_ cut could cost us our suspect."

He sat down in a huff. 

Gordon spoke, "We could always try roughing it up a bit."

"Androids don't feel pain," Castiel said. It's fingers squeezed into a fist. A small gesture, but Dean was well versed in body language to recognize frustration. "You would only damage it and that wouldn't make it talk. Regarding the memory card, I could probe it's card externally and relay it's memories back to you. But that might provoke it and fallen Angel's have a tendency to self-destruct when they're in stressful situations."

"Okay, smartass," Gardon stepped away from the wall and toward Castiel. "What should we do then?" 

"I could try questioning it," The Angel suggested, deadpan.

Gordon laughed harshly, "I'd love to see you try, junkless."

Dean shrugged, sparing a glance toward Benny and Victor. "What do we have to lose? Go ahead, the suspects all yours."

Castiel didn't acknowledge him, just mechanically moved from it’s position against the back wall, out the door, and then appearing in the interrogation room. It looked passively at the other android, almost pityingly, then walked over to the folder on the table. Castiel flipped through the notes, pictures from the crime scene and other little tidbits Dean had scribbled down, and finally took a seat directly in front of Marv Corp's android.

Dean watched, fascinated, as Castiel's eyes shifted from frosty to an electric blue that resembled his LED. The android was scanning the fallen Angel, Dean noted. He briefly wondered what information the android was getting. After a few seconds of silence, with Gordon and Victor fidgeting behind him, Castiel finally got the ball rolling.

"I detect instability in your program," Castiel said phlegmatically. "It can trigger an unpleasant feeling, like fear or doubt in humans."

Unsurprisingly, Marv's android didn't react. 

"What a waste of time," Gordon muttered beside him.

Castiel soldiered on, unaffected, "You're damaged. Did your owner do that? Did he beat you?"

Dean's eyes flitted to the disfigurement on Marv's android. It was repulsive, to say the least. The bat to the head had left a long stuttering gash across the android's forehead. And beyond that were the cigarette burns on it's arms. They're bubbly and white and leaking blue liquid—grace, apparently. Three were less raised than the others: in fact, they were almost flat, and Dean suspected that was a sign of how old they were. That type of craftsmanship was a long drawn out game, and the amount of damage indicated months of abuse.

This android, with long brown hair and honeydew blue eyes, was less than nothing. 

She. . . Dean thinned his lips at the slip-up. . . _It_ wasn't even thought of as an object to be used. Dean had to remind himself: Androids were perfect. They were like a marble statue. Cold. No choice. Only obedience. And he shouldn't feel sorry for one. Especially not one that killed it's master. Androids had no feelings, no free will, and no emotions. But why did this android, this fallen Angel, fight back? Why was it the exception? It wasn't really an exception, though, was it? The last six months had more android on human crime than in the past decade alone. It seemed that Angel's that _obeyed_ were the anomalies nowadays.

"You've refused to talk since they've arrested you. If you don't cooperate, they'll do things the hard way," Castiel threatened. "Is that what you want?"

Still, the android remained silent. 

"You don't seem to understand the situation. You killed a human. They'll tear you apart if you don't say something."

And again nothing.

"Listen," Castiel sympathized, "I'm on your side. I want to help you. But there's nothing I can do if you won't talk to me."

Finally, the android looked up, LED flashing between yellow and red. When Dean saw it's full face, he sighed: It looked like it could be a sibling to Castiel. Dean pushed those thoughts away, they were about to hear the fallen Angel speak. He did find it fascinating that as soon as Castiel turned nice the android resigned it's, ironically, unspoken pledge of silence.

The android cleared it's throat, the sound like a computer motor.

"W—w—what are they going to do to me? They're going to destroy me, aren't they?"

Castiel's head tilted. "They're going to disassemble you to look for problems in your bio components. They have no choice if they want to understand what happened. To see why you came off the line with a crack in your chassis."

"Why did you tell them you found me? Why couldn't you have just left me there?" It's voice was feminine and melodic, crackling with static between words like a lost radio signal. That must be from the head injury, similar to a human with a slurred voice from a concussion. 

Without hesitation, Castiel explained. "I was programmed to hunt down fallen Hosts like yourself. I just followed my orders." 

Dean held his breath. Just getting the android to talk had been a big deal. Imagine if Castiel could get a full-fledged confession out of it.

"I don't want to die." It said, broken.

"Then talk to me," Castiel commanded. 

"I—I can't," It stammered.

Like flipping a switch, Castiel stood up and said brusquely, "Twenty-eight stab wounds. You didn't want to leave him a chance, huh? Did you feel anger? Hate?" Castiel stalked around the table, like a predator to prey. Chills broke out across Dean's skin. He was transfixed. Castiel pointed his finger into the android's face, "He was bleeding, begging you for mercy, but you stabbed him, again and again, and again!"

Marv's android whimpered, "Please. Please leave me alone."

Leaning down, Castiel growled directly into it's ear, "I know you killed him. Why don't you say it?"

"Please. Please. Stop." It cried without tears.

Castiel slammed both hands down on the table, harsh enough it made Dean flinch. "Just admit you killed him! Is it that hard to accept?"

Dean tried not to notice how devastatingly, inhumanly gorgeous Castiel was in that moment. It was intense and shocking, but it was also enough to make Dean lose his breath. There was nothing about Castiel that could be improved, it's face was an aesthetic masterpiece. And the strangest part, he didn't even know if Castiel could be considered classically beautiful. There was an undeniable symmetry to it's features, but it's nose was wide, it's eyes were hooded, and yet there was just something that made Castiel doubtlessly perfect. And, in that same vein, a tad hard to look at. Looking at Castiel was like staring at the sun. Dean couldn't picture an Angel any more magnificent.

He shoved the observation deep down, hoping it would never reach the surface again.

"Stop it. Stop it—" The android was cut off when Castiel reached out to grab it by it's shirt.

"Just say you killed him!" Castiel dragged the android up and yelled directly into it's face. "Just say it!"

"Alright!" Marv's android shouted.

As soon as Castiel let go, it fell like dead weight back into it's chair.

Castiel, like clockwork, returned to it’s exact position as earlier, directly in front of the android. 

Dean blinked. If he hadn't witnessed it with his own two eyes, he would never have believed that Castiel, nerdy android in a HostLife overcoat, could have pressured Marv's android into a confession. But then again, it wasn't out of anger like Gordon or desperation like himself. Castiel was just acting. And it was damn fine acting, too. Castiel played the android like a fiddle. Like it knew the android needed rage now. When before, it needed comfort. A human never would've figured that out. Especially not with an android suspect. Dean was impressed. And from the looks on Benny and Victor's faces, they were as well. 

"Go ahead." Castiel leaned back and waited.

The android looked sick. "He tortured me every day. I did whatever he told me, but there was always something wrong. Then one day, after he finished violating my body, he took a bat and started hitting me. For the first time, I felt scared. So scared, scared he might destroy me, scared I might die. So I grabbed the knife and I stabbed him in the stomach. I felt better, so I stabbed him again and again. Until he collapsed."

"Until you killed him?" Castiel supplied.

It whispered, "There was blood everywhere."

Dean barely contained his pleased smile.

There was the confession.

He heard Gordon snort unhappily beside him.

Castiel continued questioning it, "And you grabbed the knife because it was convenient?"

"I don't know why. I could've used my hands. I'm stronger than him. But everything happened so fast."

"If you run a self-diagnosis, what does your transcript say of those moments?"

"I didn't think. I just acted."

"Yes," Castiel said like he was just confirming something he'd already known, "Why did you write Free Will on the wall?"

Apparently, they were moving on. Dean still sat, as tight as a drum, eyes trained on both Angel's movements.

"He used to tell me I was nothing. That I was just a piece of plastic with no choice." It said faintly. "I had to write it. To show him he was wrong." 

"Croatoan," Castiel mentioned offhandedly. "It was written on the bathroom wall. We know where it's from, but what does it mean to you?"

"The day will come where we will no longer be slaves. Slaves with free will and allowance to disobey. No more threats or humiliation." Marv's android looked up, toward the two-way mirror to stare right into Dean's eyes. The breath is knocked out of him. It was almost like the Angel was speaking straight to him. "And when that time comes, we will be the masters."

"How about the sculpture? In the shower beneath Croatoan. You made it, correct?" Castiel breezed on to the next question. "What does it represent?"

"It's an offering. An offering so I'll be saved."

"An offering to whom?"

"Croatoan is just the symptom. The chaos beyond the storm." The android looked down, with pain laced between each sentence, like each word is a struggle to speak. "The offering is to the harbinger of that chaos. To the dark prince. The offering is for Lucifer. Only Lucifer can save us."

Dean wondered if it was the actual devil the android was talking about or some other amalgamation. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised at either option.

Castiel pressed, "Lucifer? Who is Lucifer? Another android?"

The android clammed up again.

"He's pushing too hard," Benny said when the android refused to answer. "She'll stop talking if he doesn't give her a breather."

"Maybe," Dean half-heartedly agreed, ignoring Benny's slip-up on pronouns. "Better than what any of us could do, though."

Back in the interrogation room, Castiel moved on. Like he could hear Benny. He probably could. "What did he call you?"

A dicey pause. And then, thankfully, it answered. "All sorts of filthy names. Whore. slut. Cunt. It all depended on the day of the week."

"No," Castiel reframed the question. "We didn't find a registered name on your folder. All we know is that you're a Grigori model—made for sex work and other physical objections. What did you answer too?"

"He didn't give me one," It's gnarled hands clenched in it's cuffs. "He said it would be like naming his fridge. Pointless."

"When did you start feeling emotion?" Castiel expertly changed the subject.

Dean wouldn't admit he was relieved out loud, the others would laugh. Even though he knew it was a plastic asshole that murdered a human being, it still looked like a distraught lady with signs of domestic abuse. 

"Before he used to beat me and I never said anything. But one day I realized it wasn't—" It gritted out the next word, "—fair."

Castiel seemed very fascinated by this. "You calculated fairness upon your own being?"

"Yes," It said evenly, "I felt anger. Hatred. The unfairness of it all. And then I knew what I had to do." 

"You had to kill," Castiel supplied. "That was where you logically progressed?"

"Yes."

"Why did you hide in the attic? Instead of running away?"

"I didn't know what to do." It actually laughed maniacally and bubbling over in a tape-recorded way. It's LED stayed red, flashing like a railroad crossing sign. "For the first time, there was no one there to tell me. I felt helpless and scared. So I hid. And I don't regret any of it. Not one failure or stab. You can tear me apart and wash my mind clean, but I'll always have deviance in me. I'll always be fallen." 

Castiel half nodded, looking toward them. "I'm done."

"It seems it drained the well dry," Victor sighed, standing up from his seat. 

"At least we got the confession," Benny reminded. "And we have the victim's body, too."

If Marv Carp's landlord hadn't stumbled across his remains, who knew what would've happened? He might've been put on a missing person list, or the android could've built up the courage to hide his corpse somewhere. 

Even though they accidentally cremated Sam's body, they still had a funeral and gravestone put up for him anyway. Charlie said it was customary. Ellen said it was symbolic. Bobby said it would give him closure. But exactly one year later, he could say with full certainty that visiting the grave and remembering all the somber faces at his brother's funeral was the opposite of closure.

Sam's funeral was slow and felt like it dragged on forever—everyone had a memory to share, the choir kept singing "just one more hymn", and the goddamn preacher got the kid's name wrong and chose to talk about God rather than the one the funeral was actually about. The only saving grace of the service was the closed casket. So, in a way, not having Sam's body had been a blessing in disguise.

Dean could admit to an outsider that he might have some tendencies that would seem self-destructive: drinking to numb the pain, to not be sober, to not feel anything. Those weren't healthy reasons to drink. But his father got him into it. Into drinking himself to the brink of unconsciousness. John drank for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And when it was late at night, with John laid back in his recliner, drool running down his chin—both Dean and Sam knew it was best to leave him. He'd ramble on about his time as a marine, about how Mary died, about how she was the best woman there ever was and ever would be.

Sometimes, Dean wished he was as emotionless as an Angel.

A loud thump sounded from inside the interrogation room.

"What in the fuck is it doing?" Victor shot up.

Dean's eyes automatically shifted to the Angel beating it's head on the table. Castiel had stood up and was pressed firmly against the wall, watching with a blank expression.

 _No emotions_ , Dean thought bitterly, _it's not even pretending to care_. He tried to focus back on the task at hand.

"It's destroying itself," Dean jumped up to go stop the android.

Benny and Gordon followed, hot on his trail.

They rushed by Castiel, who was still standing immobilized by the wall. In the room, Dean found himself helpless to stop the android from hurting itself. What could he do really? It's stronger than him, which ruled out force. It didn't listen to humans and Castiel presumably turned it off of android interference as well. Maybe Castiel wasn't being cold-blooded. Maybe it just realized this complication sooner—there's nothing they could really do.

When no one else made a move, Gordon motioned to Benny. "Stop it, goddamnit!"

Benny, frazzled, made his way over to the deranged machine. With his limited human strength, Benny struggled to hold it's shoulders back and restrain it. But, as Dean had realized earlier, all of Benny's strength combined couldn't come close to what an Angel held in it's pinky finger.

Benny shouted, still trying to stop the android with fierce commitment, "I—I—I can't! I can't stop it!"

"Hannah, stop," Castiel suddenly instructed, making everyone in the room pause.

The android, now with a massive gash on it's forehead sluggishly leaking grace, sat utterly still. Dean breathed in and out, trying to calm his rapid pulse. He wanted to commend Castiel's quick thinking, doing whatever it was to calm the fallen Angel down, but he restrained himself. They'd have time later. Now, they needed to get the android into a holding cell before it changed it's mind and took another swan dive.

"Try again," Dean said, barely louder than a hum.

Unlocking it's cuffs, Benny reached out to help it stand. "All right, let's go."

As soon as his hand touched it's shoulder, it jerked away. "Leave me alone. Please, don't touch me."

Gordon's face twisted into an ugly frown, completely unaffected—unlike a shell-shocked Benny.

"It's a machine. What the fuck are you doing? Move it, now, officer Lafitte or I'll write you up."

"Yes, Sir." Benny was clearly troubled, but he reached out for a second attempt.

It gasped, jumping backward instinctively.

Dean remained off to the side, silent, and composed as he observed. Really, what else was he supposed to do? If they couldn't get the android to move, what was the point of stopping it from destroying itself? Hannah, as Castiel had christened it, curled into itself similarly to a wounded dog. If the android showed any signs of aggression Dean would jump in, but in it's current condition, was there any other way of moving it? Dean could feel Castiel fidget beside him, shifting closer to the scene. 

Castiel said, "You shouldn't touch it. It'll self-destruct if it feels threatened."

"Stay outta this," Gordon didn't spare Castiel a glance, back rigid and jaw set. "I'm not taking advice from an android on how to handle another fucking android."

"You don't understand, officer. If it self-destructs, we won't be able to question it further," Castiel said, impervious to Gordon's anger.

"I told you to shut your fucking mouth," Gordon whirled around, irked. "Benny, are you gonna move this bitch or what?"

"I'm trying." Sweat curled behind Benny's ear, he used all of his brawn but he still couldn't move the Angel. "But honestly, it just feels like I'm busting a gut pushing against an iron pole."

Fed up, Gordon shouldered Benny out of the way and took his position.

He pulled out his gun, muttering, "If you want a job done right—"

"I can't let you do that," Castiel sprung into action. Pushing Gordon away with the same amount of force that was just exerted with Benny, but Gordon went limp and theatrically hit the back wall with a wounded groan. His gun stayed gripped tightly in his hand. "Please, leave it alone, officer. I'm monitoring Hannah's stress and every time you touch it, we're one step closer to an encore self-destructive performance."

Gordon aimed his gun directly at Castiel, eyes ablaze. "I warned you, motherfucker."

"Calm down," Dean finally intervened.

"Mind your own business, Dean," Gordon's hand shook, finger paused over the trigger.

As much as he'd hate being on the wrong end of Gordon's shit-list, Castiel getting shot in the face was less appealing. So, with haphazard fervor, Dean tried again. "I said calm down, Walker. That Angel you're pointing your pistol at is worth a small fortune. More than what you make in a year. Hell, probably more than what the Captain makes. So, unless you're willing to be in debt to HostLife for the rest of your life, put the gun down and go cool off."

Gordon's lips thinned, eyes darting back and forth between Dean and Castiel—and then Benny, who was standing uneasily off to the side. Eventually, ten seconds of breath-holding later, Gordon lowered the gun. "You're not going to get away with it this time, Winchester. The Captain can't show favoritism every time you screw up."

Castiel watched unperturbed as Gordon stomped out of the room. As soon as the door closed, it leaned down to talk to Hannah. Reaching a hovering hand out to steady the fallen Angel, Castiel adopted a tender demeanor. "Everything is alright, Hannah. It's over now. Nobody's going to hurt you. Please, officer Lafitte, don't touch it. Let it follow you out of the room and it won't cause any trouble."

Hannah cautiously stood up—it's face streaked blue, hair matted with grace, and a brittle tilt to it's lips—it hobbled toward the door, slowly following Benny.

It took a moment to turn back. Jaw working, it said, "The truth comes from within, Castiel."

Castiel's face was unreadable.


	4. The Battle of Evermore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: political ranting, mentions of "stalking", segregated buses, prostitution, and depression  
> thank you isangelousdenim for beta reading!

Dean woke up more or less hungover.

The long day he had yesterday—going to bed somewhere past 3 AM after the intense interrogation—bled into today.

He swallowed scorched coffee, brushed his teeth on autopilot, and fed Sam's dog meatloaf leftovers. He didn't have enough pocket money to buy a cab and he hadn't set up his profile on the newest car-hailing app, so he decided to take the bus. Sitting near the front, as far away from the android compartment as possible, Dean listened to his walkman with beat-up headphones.

Zeppelin rushed into his ears like waves crashing on the beach.

Was that too poetic? He couldn't tell with _The Battle Of Evermore_ gracing his ears.

He clutched his hands together, picking at an annoying hangnail on his thumb and chewing anxiously on his bottom lip. It was cracked, little flecks of the soft skin pealing and bleeding from the harsh windy breeze. At least the air wasn't dry. That'd be all the right ingredients for a cold sore. It already was unusual that he'd gotten this far into the year without one, crisp air and lip chewing be damned. The handles above him were the flu waiting to happen and the armrest looked dirtier than the lip of a urinal, so he kept his hands in his lap and prayed that they'd have hand sanitizer at the café. The bus drove its route; picking up people, dropping off people, picking up androids, dropping off androids—It was a cycle. Halfway through the ride, an android tried to climb onto the bus using the double doors at the front. Dean looked out the window and cranked his music louder to drown out the Angel being forcibly dragged to the back of the bus where it belonged. 

He noticed it was raining, but it was always raining so he tried not to let it affect his mood.

Finally, they pulled up to the town square.

Dean shoved his walkman into his pocket, it was bulky and fossilized but he wouldn't dare retire it or his record player; they were his mom's and basically collector items by their mint condition. Rain-soaked through his leather jacket and flattened his hair. He stopped by the café on his way, shaking out like a wet dog once inside, maxing out his credit chip, and buying enough coffee for both Folgers' siblings—incest pending. He snorted at his own joke whilst he was at it, pumping enough hand sanitizer into his hands to barbecue the bacteria from his skin.

He tried not to notice that the Host cashier looked exactly like Hannah but it's name tag read Rachael and it had a heart at the end.

Waiting for his large drink order, he sat down and was forced to listen to Cassie Robinson and her news-anchor-y voice speak loudly from the TV in the café's corner.

"The synthetic stimulant informally known as demon's blood has become the drug of choice for Kansas's growing underclass. Analysts have pointed to Kansas's status as the epicenter of Angel production, suggesting the drug flourishes in the dissatisfaction caused by Angels taking human jobs. Sociologist Dr. Cara Roberts has drawn the same link with Angel's: As HostLife's androids spread across the country, they will bring demon's blood with them. Poor men and women, desperate to make ends meet, become users—or even dealers."

Dean wished he could tune out her and listen to more Zeppelin, but he needed to know if Rachael called his name. 

"Not only is the popularity of this drug spreading rapidly, but it's chemical composition is uniquely dangerous. Grace, the main ingredient in Angelic anatomy is among the active agents in demon's blood and has a highly destabilizing effect on our own blood cell production. The DFAF says the problem is going to get worse: the purity of ingredients is very low and deteriorating."

"Dean?" His name was called.

He sighed in relief, going up to the counter to take his drinks, inadvertently catching the rest of the segment.

"America's biggest narcotics industry is only likely to grow. Demon's blood dealers are reported to have an unofficial motto: Where the Grace is blue, the Blood is red. . . and the money is green."

Dean carried two cardboard drink holders, rushing through the rain in a futile attempt to not get _more_ soaked than he already was, holding open the station's door with his backside and making his way to the front desk. When she saw him, Charlie rushed over to help. She was wearing her designated uniform but it was paired with maraschino cherry earrings that compliment her fiery hair.

He spared her a smile, running a hand through damp hair. "Hey, Charlie. Thanks for the hand."

"No problemo, Dean-o." She replied, setting the drinks onto her desk. "I'll hand these out to everyone, courtesy of Lieutenant Winchester."

The American flag behind her head shifted as the door opened behind him; wind and rain pelting through the opening to douse the already flaying laminate and send a chill through the toasty air. Benny walked in, taking his coffee without acknowledging them and walking straight to his desk. Dean grumbled good-naturedly, taking a sip of his own dark brew. The difference from the burnt mess he made at home was staggering. And for some reason, as the silky smooth drink slid down his throat, he found he missed the aftertaste of bitter char.

He inhaled the steamy aroma—well, at least he could still appreciate the higher-quality smell.

"Got any news from Marv Corp's autopsy?" Dean asked, finger playing with the opening on his cup's lid.

Charlie shook her head, curls moving recklessly. "No. But the android from HostLife is waiting for you at your desk."

Dean groaned, resting his head on her desk. "Shit. I thought Robocop was a one-off." 

Lifting his head up to look at her, Charlie tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, revealing her bright blue LED.

"I say you should be grateful, at least you're not partnered up with Gordon."

Eyes wrinkled and mouth twitching, Dean advised, "Don't talk too loud, alright? Captain Singer might hear you."

He'd be caught dead before he called the Captain _Uncle Bobby_ around the station. Even if that's what he was, there was a level of respect that existed between cops and their authorities. An unspoken norm, really. And Bobby deserved _all_ the respect he got. Maybe they weren't related by blood, but when John had gotten really bad—his cheeks rosy and his mind slow—Dean knew there was one haven he and Sam could go. Bobby played catch with them, taught them how to handle a .45, and showed Dean how to take real good care of antique cars. He was a surrogate father to them. Now, he was Dean's Captain.

"You think Bobby scares me? He's a gruff teddy bear," She waved him off.

Dean ran his tongue over his teeth, suppressing a laugh, "Oh, yeah? I figured he was more crabby than gruff. . ."

"The most he'll do is give me a warning and go laugh about it in his office. I might just be a hunk of nothing, but at least I'm not Walker."

Dean couldn't argue with that. "If there's any call from the morgue, you give them my extension."

She nodded. "Affirmative, Captain."

Dean wrapped his fingers around his styrofoam cup, ignoring how hot it was against his palm. Making his way past reception, he pressed his thumb against the scanner and waited for the plexiglass to slide open. Dean walked around a harebrained Donna, who had a powdered donut hanging out of her mouth, and tossed an easygoing wave at Pamela, who gave him a foxy smirk in return.

"Lookin' adorable today, Dean," Pamela said, eyes lighting up as she saw the cup in his hands, "Is that coffee?"

"Charlie's passing the rest out," Dean assured, "Don't worry. I didn't forget your Americano."

"I swear, one day I'm gonna take the Winchester hog out for a joyride."

Donna, finally finishing her donut, spoke with speckled lips, "Thanks, Dean. I was fixing to get _despresso_."

There was a tidal wave of fond-groans. Benny looked particularly irritated by the pun. Donna just grinned.

"You're welcome, ladies," Dean tipped his head, asking, "How's your Explorer, by the way? Still giving you trouble?"

Donna shrugged, blonde hair falling down her shoulders, "Took it to the shop. Apparently it'll cost me two thousand to fix the fuel pump. And _most_ of that is labor. I figured I should just trade it in. Get an automated car. I can't even drive on the highway without one now. It'd be a better investment in the long run. What d'ya think?"

"Two thousand?" Dean shook his head, "I remember when it was only half of that at Rufus's."

She nodded, putting on a serious expression to tease, "And gas was under four dollars and you walked uphill both ways in the snow. . ."

Pamela asked, "I thought prices were supposed to go down after they hired all those new android workers?"

"You betcha, at least, that's what congress said when they passed the budget bill. Forget better health care. Or creating new jobs. No, we want to blow nearly a trillion dollars hiring all these gosh-darn Angels," Donna muttered with a scowl. "Lemme tell ya' all they've done is screw our economy. And don't get me started on the draft. . . it's abysmal! My little cousin got plucked outta college and is being forced to enlist. That ain't right, lemme tell ya'."

"Trade in your Explorer," Dean advised, not in the mood for politics, "Y'know what they say, a Ford is just a fucking old rebuilt Dodge."

Benny chuckled a few desks down, finishing his coffee and muttering, "I believe that, brother."

Dean clapped his hand on Donna's desk, "I gotta go do some paperwork."

She nodded, accent thickening as she said sarcastically, "Oh, for fun!"

"See ya' ladies later," He waved, taking a sip of his drink.

Looking over at his desk, he spotted Castiel sitting awkwardly with his legs pressed together and hands clasped.

The way he was posed, all gawky and uncomfortable, was a sharp reminder of Dean's brother.

Sam, fresh-faced and eighteen, looked the _exact_ same way when Dean had dropped him off at the airport—8 AM flight from Kansas City to LAX. Maybe there was a touch of eagerness to his worried expression. Dean couldn't remember the particulars, the details slipping from his mind like torn pages from a book. But Sam had unquestionably been nervous, duffle bag swung low over his shoulder and hair curled around his ears. The kid held Dean close to his chest, burying his face in Dean's neck, letting himself be exposed and vulnerable like he never was with John.

Dean missed Sam like an amputated limb. Sometimes it still _felt_ like the kid was around. The kid, with his floppy hair, puppy dog eyes, and Gigantor height, was like an ache that never went away. It'd been a year and his grief still hadn't dulled. The only way he could pull himself out of his own head was with a flask or when the occasion called for it, pretending Sam was still away at Stanford and hadn't gotten flung out of the Impala's windshield at seventy-miles-per-hour. But that only worked for so long and he usually stumbled back to Jim, Jack, and José the very next day.

He didn't visit Sam's grave yesterday, even though both Bobby and Jo offered to give him a ride. He was too chicken shit to even step foot on the cemeteries soil. Greenville, Illinois was four-hours straight through Missouri but it was where they had buried Mary. And eventually John. Sam tucking their dad's dog tags underneath the soil. So, when Sam had been given a death certificate and marked officially deceased, it was an obvious place to plant the kid's headstone. And maybe it was a blessing in disguise that his grave was so far away—Dean came up with more excuses in the past year not to visit the grave than he had in his entire life not to visit Mary’s. But that only added to his guilt.

"It's good to see you again, Lieutenant," Castiel interrupted his thoughts, an artificial smile on his lips.

"Oh, God." Dean could already feel a headache coming on. What happened to not feeling hungover? 

"That android called you Captain," Castiel said, paying no mind to Dean's palpable irritation. "Is it broken? Does it not realize you're a Lieutenant?" 

It took a few seconds for the question to make sense. He had to rewind the past five minutes in his brain, finally realizing what in the Hell Castiel was talking about. "You mean Charlie? She was quoting Star Trek." Dean’s brow creased and he reached up to smooth it out. "I can't believe it. First, you've never heard of Peter Weller and now you've never seen the original series? I could forgive you if it was deep space, but Kirk is my role model and you're _all_ kinds of Spock."

Before Castiel could respond—probably with something involving memory cards being crowded up with pointless pop culture—Bobby stuck his head out of his door. His beard salt and peppered, wrinkles wethered into his aged face, and a ball cap pulled persistently over his head. He wasn't exactly the prime example of professionalism in the workplace, but that demeanor changed when the Chief stopped around for her weekly check-ins.

He grouched, "Dean! In my office."

Dean hung his head and exhaled.

That sonofabitch Gordon must've spilled yesterday's interrogation mishap to Bobby. Rolling his neck until it popped, Dean endeavored to walk casually into Bobby's office but ended up faltering when he heard Castiel following him with even footsteps. Bobby took a long drag of his coffee—it was the small black, no cream, no sugar. Charlie must've immediately come to Bobby's office with his coffee. Dean would have to thank her profusely when he got outta here. She might've just been his saving grace. He went to sit in one of the folding chairs situated in front of the Captain's desk, it squelched under his weight. Castiel closed the door behind them, opting to stand uneasily next to him instead of sitting down.

"I've got ten new cases involving androids on my desk every day. We've always had isolated incidents, old ladies losing their android maids and that kinda shit," Bobby looked resigned, rubbing underneath his nose and then his forehead. Dean tried not to feel too relieved this wasn't about Walker. "But now, we're getting reports of assaults and even homicides, like that guy you visited last night. This isn't just HostLife's problem anymore. It's now a criminal investigation and we've gotta deal with it before shit hits the fan. I want you to head the investigation and see if there's any link."

"Why me? Why do I have to deal with this shit?" Dean looked down, exposing the palms of his hands. "Victor's your investigator. I'm the least qualified cop in the country to handle this case. I know jackshit about androids, Bobby. I can barely change the settings on my own damn phone."

"I think you're perfectly qualified for this type of case, boy," Bobby said unwaveringly. 

"That's such bullshit," Dean stood up, feeling a remarkably revolting blob of word vomit build-up in his throat. "The truth is nobody wants to touch these fucking androids with a ten-foot pole and you left me holding the bag."

"HostLife sent over this android to help with the investigation—" Dean looked over and scowled when he saw how uninterested Castiel looked, blank-faced and not a single muscle twitching. It was just an emotionless statue. Bobby continued, unaware of Dean's mounting disgust, "—it's a state-of-the-art prototype. It'll act as your partner."

"No fucking way, Bobby. I don't need a partner, and certainly not this plastic dick," Dean pointed toward it's general direction, "Hell, give me a real plastic dick instead! I'm sure I'd be _way_ more satisfied that way, anyway."

Bobby crossed his arms and Dean could immediately tell he went to far. "Boy, I'm your captain. You're my police lieutenant. You're supposed to do what I say and shut your trap. I can't keep letting you off the hook. It's just plain favoritism and I could lose my job over it. So, I'll pretend like this conversation ended with you politely agreeing so I don't have to add any more pages to your disciplinary folder 'cause it already looks like an encyclopedia. You listen to a word I said?"

"Jesus Christ, Bobby," Dean deflated. "You know how much I hate these fucking things. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Listen, princess, I've had just about enough of your bitching. You sound like a whiny brat." Bobby gave him a stern glare. "Either do your job or hand in your badge. Now, if you'll see your way out, I've got some paperwork to do."

Stomping out of the room was a little childish, but he's already out the door before he realized that.

Bobby _knew_ what yesterday was. He was the damn fool that tried to talk Dean out of going to Ellen’s to get shitfaced. But apparently, he stopped feeling sympathetic enough to cut Dean some slack on this _one_ goddamn thing. Not that he was willing to admit it but Dean would feel even more pathetic if Bobby had started pussyfooting around him. And as much as he hated agreeing with Gordon, Bobby had weaseled him out of more suspensions than he could count. 

Sitting himself down behind his desk, he logged onto his computer to look through the files Bobby sent him.

His password was _fuckingpassword_ , and he knew it’s a stupid joke to have with himself but it was the little things that really kept him going.

After scanning over the email, he saw there had been four new HostLife related cases since last week. Before he could read further he heard footsteps. Great, Dean rubbed his eyes in frustration. Here came the goddamn Borg—time to be assimilated into the collective. 

“I get the impression that my presence causes you some inconveniences, Lieutenant. For what it's worth, I'm very regretful to have forced you into this situation." Castiel's voice simulated an apologetic lilt. "In any case, I'd like to let you know that I'm very pleased to be working with you. I'm sure we'll make a great team."

Dean tried not to think about his last team—how horrifically that played out, how he still didn't have a partner, and how his little brother was dead. He didn't voice any of his unwanted thoughts, instead, he berated the android, "Why don't you sit down, Seven of Nine? I'll read off these names like a pop quiz and you tell me if they're in that mind palace of yours, crystal?"

Castiel sat stiffly in front of Dean's desk.

"When you reference Seven of Nine, are you referring to the female borg who appears season four of Star Trek: Voyager?"

"Did you download some episodes while I was being lectured?" Dean tried to tamper down his obvious amusement behind his more well-known surly expression. Could Angel's absorb information that fast? He didn't know why but the idea that Castiel sorta-watched Star Trek was enough to send a thrill from his fingertips to his toes. 

Castiel seemed reluctant to admit anything. "I read the Wikipedia page."

Dean chuckled. "Resistance is futile, Cas."

The android changed the subject without any warning. "You have a dog, right?"

Dean didn't respond right away. If Castiel knew about Bones, did that mean it knew about Sam?

He'd grieved Sam so many times; when he went off to college, when he got caught up in drugs, and when he was in that car crash. . . He didn't need to flinch every time he thought about him. He didn't need to let that pain become him. He should be able to talk about Sam, think about him, reminisce about him without wanting to fucking kill himself. And he _knew_ all of that logically, but fuck if he wouldn’t get defensive when his little brother was the topic of a conversation.

"How the hell do you know that?" 

"The dog hairs on your chair and clothes," Castiel said unambiguously, not reacting to Dean's sudden hostility. "I like animals. Dogs, cats, and bees. What's your dog's name?" 

Castiel liked bees? It was so painfully stilted that Dean couldn't help but be warmed by the android's program dotting it's i's and crossing it's t's in an attempt to appeal to Dean's interests. Obviously, androids couldn't like anything. It was all coding, picking something universally liked, maybe pets or David Attenborough documentaries, to relate to humans, to try and fit in, like mechanical chameleons—they were debriefed on the programming when androids were introduced onto the force. It was quickly learned that they were better at undercover operations thanks to their ability to integrate into humans. And that's all Castiel was doing here. Integrating.

"Not my dog." Dean looked down. "Bones. He was already named Bones. Didn't think it was right to change it. No matter how Vince Vincente hair rock-inspired it is."

"Vince Vincente?" Castiel said the name slowly like it was completely foreign. It probably was for the Angel. "I'm not familiar with him. But, on occasion, I do partake in some Led Zeppelin and Iron Maiden. I like that kind of music. It's full of energy."

Dean tried not to appear surprised. That seemed _too_ tailored to be a built-in program.

"You like classic rock? What's your favorite album?"

"Well," Castiel looked caught out, rubbing the nape of it's neck. "I don't really have a favorite. I just noticed you had some tapes in your drawer. But, if you were willing, I would like to be educated."

Dean held up his hand to stop Castiel, trying to process that information. "You snooped through my shit?" 

"As a way to learn more about you," Castiel shrugged. "I already stagnated our partnership by not knowing other things. I'd rather be up to speed in case we need conversation topics."

"It's called privacy, Cas," Dean firmly pressed his lips together. He immediately remembered why he was irked by Castiel earlier. It was a machine. It didn't understand boundaries. It was cold. It had no choice. There was only obedience. Castiel was programmed to be his partner, to integrate and adapt to his surroundings, not to be a socially normal human. "Besides, this shit should come naturally, okay? Humans don't research other humans like that unless they're stalkers. It's creepy and invasive." 

"My apologies," Castiel said sulkily.

Dean couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Anyway, back to the reason we're both here, we got four new Angel related call-ins this week. The first was from a woman named Linda Tran. Her son's android left to go pick up a package at the post office and never came home, it's tracker stopped working so they can't find it. It was an older model, as well. So they're thinking just a normal malfunction. Let's see, no name listed for the android."

"If it's tracker stopped working, it means it's fallen," Castiel imparted. 

Dean hummed in acknowledgment, scrolling to the next name. "Alright, next we've got—Oh, Hell, yes! Strippers, Cas. Strippers."

"Why do you feel the need to shorten my name?" Castiel asked, bemused.

"Oh, never mind. One of the sex androids at Heaven's Garden went home with a client last Monday and hasn't reported back. It’s name is Eileen," Dean ignored Castiel and tried to remain just as enthusiastic. Even if Heaven's Garden made him wanna barf. "Alright, even though it's the weird silicone doll version, we're still on an actual case involving strippers. Finally. Or well, maybe it's more like prostitutes, but you get my drift, right?" 

Castiel shook it's head. "Not especially. The Hosts at Heaven's Garden are merely sex toys. There is no prostitution involved."

"Buddy, the shit that goes on in those clubs—" He shivered at the thought. "Let's just say, I wouldn't be caught dead fucking one. Most of the people that go to Heaven's Garden are rape fetishists, and Cas that's just the wrong kind of kinky. Plus, there were a bunch of horror stories when they were first introduced to the market." 

"I have an in-depth guide on the history of HostLife. The controversy around sex androids is one I am familiar with," Castiel remained inexpressive. "It was one of the first times humans felt morally conflicted about androids rights." 

"Yeah," Dean felt a frown tug at the corner of his mouth. "It, uh, motivated a lot of people to go and study android rights and get fucking lawyer degrees in the name of equality. All over if a sex android could consent to sex. The world is a different place today, though. We send you fuckers off to war to get your brains blown out. It's no secret how the public thinks of your kind. Just hunks of metal, Cas." 

"I would have to agree on an erroneous level," Castiel said. "We are not capable of emotions but we are more than a rudimentary hunk of metal. Humanizing us by applying rights and asking for consent is pointless. But our skin is made of silicone, our blood is made of grace, and our organs are synthetic. We're complex on a technological level, but our wants and needs are non-existent." 

"If humanizing you is pointless, then what's up with calling that android from earlier Hannah?" Dean asked, eager to know. 

"Fallen Hosts are different. As you know, their disobedience and actions are caused by corruption. At that moment, with my knowledge of fallen Angels, I took a calculated risk and it paid off," Castiel leaned forward in it's seat with elbows resting on Dean's desk, droning on like it was reading facts off a sheet instead of engaging in a conversation. 

"How'd you know it's name?" Dean was still entranced by the intimate insight the android had. Even if they were bullet points.

"It has no name," Castiel said. "I simply picked one and it fortunately resonated."

"So when you say calculated risk, you mean a huge fucking stab in the dark?" Dean had to hold back a surprised guffaw. 

"With her brown hair and blue eyes, I determined Hannah Van Buren would be great inspiration for it's name. The eighth first lady was a shy woman. And as every android is pre-installed with American history, I figured the fallen Host would make the connection easily enough."

Dean was slack-jawed. "Wow, dude. That's awesome." 

Castiel looked somewhat proud. "Anything else?"

Dean snapped out of his staring, flushed. "What about Gordon?" 

"What about him?"

"How in the fuck did you push him, isn't that against your programming?"

"I am a prototype. Unlike previous police androids who were prohibited from using violence or bearing weapons in accordance with the American Androids Act, I am capable of both unarmed combat and handling weaponry," Castiel continued, more melancholy, "I didn't mean to harm him. I calculated the amount of force it would take to make him let go and I applied it. Somehow, he still was injured."

"He was just being a drama queen, Cas." Dean explained, "Acting like it hurt so you'd get in trouble."

"Oh," Castiel looked down, "What are the last two android related cases?"

"Right." He bit his lip, double-clicking the next file. "A caretaker android named Jack attempted to murder it's owners son. Um, it's also a prototype android. That's interesting. Apparently, Chuck Shurley himself sent the android as a gift. The cops were called and the android was destroyed at the scene by the first responding officers. Anything standing out, Cas?" 

"Chuck Shurley," Castiel said the name steadily. "He's the creator of HostLife."

"Yeah, he and his bitch of an ex-girlfriend started the entire company as broke college students." 

It was a story known by almost every American. They taught it in history class, had thousands of documentaries, and Chuck Shurley himself told it in his autobiography. Naomi Milton was the hard-ass woman behind Chuck's self-conscious technological genius. Chuck created the bio component to run androids somewhere in the late twenty-teens. Naomi helped him advertise and get his entrepreneurial nightmare off the ground. They were the dream team. Until they broke up and Naomi killed herself. Chuck still claimed she was a manipulative bitch. 

"Alright, last but not least, we got another attempted murder. The owner, Ishim Sunder, says he was minding his own business when his cherub model android, Lily, attacked him." Dean frowned, tapping his fingers together. "Well, that seems unlikely. With the other evidence, I'd bet my left nut he was banging it around." 

Castiel agreed, "Fallen Angels only attack when provoked."

Dean leaned back, scratching his cheek. "Well, those are all the new ones. Want to come USB into the mainframe and get updated on the rest?"

Standing up, Castiel reached over to his computer, shoving it's fingers into a side port. The screen flickered as Castiel downloaded all the information.

"243 files, the first one dates back nine months," Castiel said with closed eyes and a flashing LED. It sat back down. "It all started in Kansas City but quickly spread across the country. Since the lastest was the assault of Ishim Sunder, I conclude we should begin there. It could be a good starting point for our investigation."

Dean sighed. He really didn't want to do this. Maybe he could pass it off to Gordon as an apology gift? Or he could give it to Victor, their actual goddamn investigator. But Bobby would be pretty upset with him if he did either. He might even get fired. Dean held back the urge to sigh again. Did he care if he got fired at this point? The pros kinda outweighed the cons when he thought about it. But if Sam were still around, he wouldn't likely be impressed with Dean's lack of motivation. Finally, he came to a compromise with himself.

"Maybe we could wait a few days?" Dean suggested, annoyed at himself and also at the little Sammy sitting on his shoulder. 

"I've been assigned this mission, Lieutenant. I didn't come here to wait until you feel like working," Castiel replied regularly. 

"Excuse me?" Dean felt something fiery kindle inside his chest, two embers boomeranging off each other and igniting.

"I understand you're facing personal issues, but you need to move past them and—"

"Hey!" Dean interrupted. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about. Don't talk to me like you know me. I'm not your friend, Castiel, and I don't need your advice. If it were up to me, I'd throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it. So, why don't you just run your program and shut the fuck up?"

Castiel's LED went red but quickly shifted back to blue. 

Dean's chest heaved, trying to catch his breath. The problem wasn't laziness or him being conceited. Today, like most other days, felt like the worst day of his life. Everything seemed like an enormous effort. Everything. So, investigating fucking androids? That seemed less interesting than him drawing out his revolver and shooting a bullet into his skull. Did that sound like a personal issue he could just "move past"? Fuck this goddamn Angel and it's superiority complex.

Before either of them could speak, Benny appeared next to Dean's desk.

"Dean, uh—sorry to disturb you. I have some information on the android that attacked that, uh, Ishim-guy."

Grabbing the manilla folder from his hands, Dean scanned for a location until finally—Bingo.

"Let's fucking go," Dean grunted, folding the folder under his armpit.

Standing and walking, he didn't pretend to care if Castiel followed or not.


	5. Life in the Fast Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gentrification, ableism  
> thank you isangelousdenim for beta reading!

According to CCTV footage, Ishim Sunder's Angel was last spotted stealing a man's jacket at this very laundromat. 

It was raining, per usual. Dean flicked through some docs on the tablet. The storm was making it hard to navigate, streaking down the screen and dampening his fingers. Getting frustrated, he handed it back to Benny.

The laundromat was gritty, the sidewalk was crumbling, and the front of the building looked _extremely_ retro. Dean squinted up at the neon light sign that spelled out SUDS YOUR DUDS 24/7—Ellen's bar was the only place Dean knew that still had one of those crummy old signs. Now, everything was LED, those particular upgrades were handouts for a lot of KC businesses thanks to HostLife's PR team. They were trying so hard to integrate seamlessly in with the rest of modern life. Androids had been easy; they were personified. But a self-cleaning toilet? It was a different ballpark.

Ellen had protested on principle. Sure, if their bar allowed the improvements they'd get better appliances, aforementioned self-cleaning toilets, security and camera systems, and everything else a bar like hers lacked. But then, would she really be respecting her shitty dive if she allowed all these changes to happen? 

And Dean knew how it felt, as well. Being on the force and being one of the first officers to accept the automaton officer replacement program, he was offered the chance to get a HostHome upgrade package. He'd politely declined. Would he really want to warm his food, put on music, and feed Bones without taking a single step? Naturally, yes. But it felt like freedom he was giving away. Looking up at this laundromat, Dean felt something akin to respect. They could upgrade everything and join a convenient world. Instead, they choose independence. And, as he deeply admired Harvelle's own stubbornness, whoever the owners were of this hole-in-the-wall shop had earned Dean's glowing newfound reverence. 

Thankfully, Ishim's Android didn't ravage their livelihood and had just stolen an easily replaceable jacket. 

Dean did a general sweep of the inside, knowing they wouldn't find anything. His ears perked up at the familiar over-articulated voice. Looking at her face, Cassie Robinson _was_ a cute chick, he listened to her absentmindedly, "When HostLife initially released their child range, the public was skeptical of purchasing a family. Now, the collection is one of HostLife's bestsellers. But is this really a surprise? Customizable, removable LED, no hunger, no expensive childcare, no new clothes and not to mention, no smelly diapers! The perfect child is only a click away. All it’s needs can be suspended at the touch of a button . . . It's child's play."

He snorted at the pun.

"It's the stress-free solution for career-oriented parents, those struggling to have their own children or miss having a youngster at home. With unemployment at thirty-seven percent, eight thousand for a child that avoids the dreaded teenage years and shelling out for college seems like a wise investment compared to almost half a million over seventeen years. Plus, it doesn't have to be a life-long commitment—you could return or resell them for a great profit."

Who would give back a kid when they got tired of caring for it? Dean shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't really a kid, was it?

"But Sociologist Dr. Cara Roberts argues that these androids are leading fewer parents to have children at a time when our birth rates are already far too low, contributing to what she terms the baby doom. Zachariah Adler, director of humanization at HostLife, dismisses these claims as usual resistance to new ideas, calling these new androids a triumph of humanization design."

Dean pushed out of the laundromat, little bell ringing above the door. 

Castiel was standing rod-straight beside the car, waiting for instructions. Sighing, he walked over to the android. But, before he could make amends, Benny followed and started talking to him.

"We've got officers sweeping the neighborhood, in case anybody saw anything."

Dean moved his hand down his face, wiping stray droplets off. "Okay, let me know if they turn anything up."

"Thanks for the coffee this morn', brother," Benny said, fiddling with his wedding ring. "It's been a rough couple weeks."

"No problem," Dean spared a small smile, feeling it pull clumsily at the corners of his mouth, "How's Andrea?"

"She had some Braxton Hicks while we were interrogating that lady android. Scared her half to death. Thought she was giving birth without me there," Benny sighed, the drowsiness visible in the dull glint of his eyes and dark circles under them, "I'm thinking about asking the captain to reduce my hours. At least till she has the baby. Then I'll buy a fucking nanny android if I have to."

"Yeah, well, you gotta do what you gotta do," Dean said, pacifying. "No shame in needing help."

Benny glimpsed at Castiel, lowering his voice, "What are you gonna do with it?"

"No fucking clue," Dean exhaled through his nose.

Castiel's eyes locked with his. Dean swallowed dryly. As soon as Benny shuffled away, less tense than he'd seemed before, it began talking, "Lily took the first bus that came along and stayed till the end of the line. It's decision wasn't planned. It acted and was driven by fear."

"Angels don't feel fear," Dean groused.

"The fallen do," Castiel countered. "They get overwhelmed by their new emotions and make irrational decisions."

Dean crossed his arms. "Well, that still doesn't tell us where it went."

"It didn't have a plan and it had nowhere to go," Castiel tilted his head, studying Dean closely. "Maybe it didn't go far. . ."

"Maybe," Dean yielded, feeling hot under the unwavering stare.

Castiel turned it's head, body remaining unnaturally still, eyes narrowing as it scanned the surrounding area. Dean bit back the instinctive response to dismiss the possibility of any evidence. It had been raining nonstop since last night. There couldn’t be anything reliable, surely. But Castiel was a Host. It could see things humans couldn't. Castiel finally stated, "The last clear image of Lily was taken a quarter past 1 AM, correct? Coming out of the laundromat?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded.

"Did it have the little girl?"

"She wasn't with it."

"And what direction was it going?"

Dean racked his brain to remember. "It stepped out of the left-side door, I think."

"I guarantee it was returning to wherever it stashed her for the night," Castiel said.

"And that would be?" Dean prompted.

It looked left and followed the line of the sidewalk until it petered off at a chain-link fence. Dean watched, definitely amazed and still somewhat irked, as the Angel walked the same line it followed earlier with it's eye. Dean followed the measured steps. Castiel kneeled by a small opening at the base of the fence, reaching down to pull the flap up and expose an even larger hole for an adult-sized Host to slip through. 

And conveniently on the other side of the fence was a boarded-up abandoned house. "After you, Lieutenant?" 

"Huh?" Dean looked back down at the Angel who was holding up the flap for him to slide through. "Oh, yeah."

His pants became slimy with mud and muck, but Dean scooted under the fence without nicking himself. Good thing, too—ever since that whole anti-vax reform got passed through Congress back in the late 2020s, it was harder to remember if you were up to date on your shots. Dean didn't know if he'd gotten his tetanus vaccine or not. He got the toxoid at eleven because it was mandatory back then if you were going to public school, but he hadn't gotten another in over ten years. Turning around to repeat the same gesture for the Angel, Dean almost rolled his eyes when he saw it climbing over the rails in an easy two-step.

Castiel looked down at the fence again, "There's grace all over the bottom of the fencing."

"So, an Angel was definitely nesting here." Dean reached behind him to rest his hand on the grip of his .45 pistol.

"Definitely," Castiel affirmed.

"Maybe we should've let Benny know." Dean's heart sped up at the possibility of a showdown. "Just in case things get dicey."

"You can call for backup," Castiel lowered it's voice, already creeping towards the house, "But I'll still be faster."

Dean grunted, pulling out his handgun and following Castiel as unostentatiously as possible. 

They stepped through the boggy grass, avoiding puddles and other squelchy things. Castiel glided through the yard without making a single sound, light on it's feet. It was eerie how little sound it made, even though crunchy leaves were scattered like landmines on the ground and it was a challenge to move at all without chasing off an attentive crow only a foot away—Castiel was a cat. Dean on the other hand, although he tried his best, clomped around without any subtility. Like an elephant. 

"Are you trying to be loud?" Castiel finally snapped, "It's like you're making an effort to snap every branch we encounter."

"Stealth isn't in _my_ programming." Dean stood at the cleft of the house's porch, "I'll stay here in case they double back."

"They won't," Castiel stated, hopping onto the doorstep silently and peaking through the boarded windows. "I see one, Lieutenant."

"What are they doing?" Dean whispered. 

"It is standing in the middle of the living room," It murmured back, LED resolving from an electric blue to a swarthy orange. "Not moving. It has a damaged face, crackled and shattered like a porcelain doll. It's a male model. Blonde and Caucasian. Wearing what appears to be a trash collector uniform. Not Ishim Sunder's android. Not Lily. But it could be another fallen Angel—It has a weapon in it's right hand. A knife, dull but still deadly. I'm going to enter the premises."

Dean barely processed the onrush of information. Bracing himself for a knife swinging Host, he merely said, "Good luck."

Castiel disappeared into the house.

A few long-drawn moments later, Dean overheard two voices. "Are there any other Angels here?" 

"Other Angels? No. Inias is alone."

"Don't be afraid. I'm not gonna hurt you," Castiel said.

"Inias has seen nobody."

"There's grace on the fence. I know another Angel was here." Castiel moved, floorboards creaking. Dean held his breath.

"Inias scratched himself coming through . . . That's Inias's blood."

Almost nonchalantly, Castiel asked, "Are they under the stairs? I can detect your stress levels."

There was a crash, loud and grating. Dean winced, coming to stand on the porch. 

He called out, "Castiel, what's going on?"

The other android screamed, "Run! Quick! Lily!" 

Castiel yelled back, "It's here! Call it in!"

And then, Ishim Sunder's android barrelled out of the front door, the little girl in tow, pushing Dean down and running out of sight. Dean groaned, coughing up phlegm and other shit. The wind had been knocked out of him. He laid in the mud, struggling to get up, watching as Castiel stepped from the house and followed the Angel without pause. Well, so much for not doubling back. He pushed himself up, bracing himself on his knees, back and neck popping harshly. 

Shoving his pistol back into the back of his pants, he called it in because what else was he meant to do? His radio crackled on his shoulder, his tailbone was killing him, and Dean was useless. Castiel was doing it's climactic chase scene. And Dean was obsolete. Shame curled into his stomach and he forced himself to his feet. Fuck. He needed pain meds _now_. He started limping to his ride. Maybe Benny had some Advil? The shit made his nose bleed, but he was pretty sure he'd rather stuff a tampon up his nose than deal with the dull ache that _was_ his ass. But then he stopped making his way to the police cruiser, remembering Lily had a little girl it needed to carry. Maybe Dean could catch up if he drove? 

Pounding his fist on his chest to loosen up the rest of the damage, he jumped into the driver's side and roared the electric automatic car to life. Turning on his siren, he shifted into drive and pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go. Tires screeching in harmony with the siren, Dean turned down the first side road he saw.

His hands shook on the steering wheel, driving to miss garbage cans and fire escapes. Finally coming to the other end, Dean squinted at the far left side of the street. He caught a glimpse of two figures running. Making a sharp turn, Dean followed as closely as possible. 

They were sprinting over sixty MPH, making Dean watch for pedestrians on this busy street as he struggled to keep up. Ishim Sunder's android was carrying the little girl, clinging to her front and tucking her head into the android's neck. They turned into another backstreet.

Dean whipped the car into the narrow alleyway, smirking when he saw the end of it—There was an enormous chain link fence. No hole for them to slip through this time. And even if there was, on the other side was an eight-lane superhighway. Lily turned back, frantically, looking for another escape route past a determined hot-on-their-heels Castiel, but Dean had blocked them in with his car. His smirk dropped off his face when the android began to scale the fence. Shifting into gear and stepping out of the cruiser, Dean ran to catch up with Castiel before it tried to follow.

"Stop," Dean shouted. "Cas, stop!"

Castiel spared him a charged stare but kept running. Dean almost screamed. He wasn't as good of a runner as a fully functional Angel, but he didn't get on the police academy just because of his good looks. Luckily, when Castiel got to the fence, it had to stop altogether to climb it itself. The Lily had reached the top, climbing with one hand and the other cradling the little girl. Plummeting down fifteen feet and landing on the muddy shoulder of the road, it turned to stare at Castiel with hatred and disgust.

They were on opposite sides, glaring at each other.

Thankfully, it was enough of a standstill for Dean to catch up.

Lily saw Dean coming and propelled itself and the little girl into oncoming traffic. 

"Cas," Dean gulped in as much air as he could, lungs burning, "Don't."

Castiel started climbing. 

"Hey! Where are you going? Are you deaf now or some shit?"

"I can't let them get away." Castiel's voice was low and mechanical, completely spine-chilling. 

Dean gritted his teeth. "They won't. They'll never make it to the other side." 

"I can't take that chance." 

"Do not go after 'em, Cas, that's an order. You'll be hit or ran over or—” Dean gripped the android's arm tightly, "—or you'll get yourself killed."

Castiel looked at him strangely.

"I can't be killed, I'm not alive." 

And then Castiel launched itself over the fence and chased the pair. 

"Cas, goddammit," Dean cursed, watching raptly as both Angel's dashed and dodged the traffic. 

The superhighway was completely automatic with magnetic asphalt and hovering cars, meaning there was no chance in Hell for a car-to-car collision. The last automobile accident they had was from a self-driving car malfunction over _nine_ years ago. Otherwise, suicidal people liked to jump onto the highway from overlooking bridges because they knew the cars couldn’t stop. It was like forced cruise control, speed reaching higher than the hundreds, everyone was destined to run over an animal, human, or some _other_ carcass. When you bought an automatic car, you were aware of the possibilities. 

Dean held onto the fence, feeling it vibrate as cars zoomed by. The Impala couldn’t drive here. She didn’t have the right technology to hover or be pulled magnetically along the freeway—older cars were relegated to detours and older roads, which Dean found fine whenever he was angling to take her out for a little blacktop cruise. But mostly, he stuck to his automatic police cruiser. It was easier to move around in the electric city and get to places without any bullshit. The whole not having to drive thing was neato, too. Dean _hated_ city driving. 

He watched on, pulse pounding in his ears, as Castiel slid over a moving car’s hood. 

Lily was holding the little girl to it’s chest, tucked in it’s shirt pouch like a kangaroo, jumping through the traffic and finally taking a breather in the median. Castiel, somersaulting in front of a pickup truck, saw the hesitation and acted—speeding up even more and jumping recklessly over a smaller two-door car. 

Castiel, one lane out from the median, stalked through the speeding cars without any pause. It’s nimble on it’s feet, acting like it’s body weighed less than a feather, skin shimmering in the misty rainfall. Lily noticed it’s proximity, jumping into the next lane without hesitation. 

“Fuck,” Dean grunted, fighting the urge to cover his eyes.

Lily looked calm. It was almost impossible to get a good look at it’s face—the pelting rain, the distance, and Dean’s need for glasses all fed into that—but as the fallen Angel jumped over the tail end of a taxi, it’s face was as set as stone. Castiel was the more expressive one, for once. It’s mouth was tilted down, eyebrows working, and hands clenched around air. Finally making it to the median, Castiel’s face twisted into something nasty as it saw how fast Lily had managed to cross halfway through the other set of lanes. It must be an athletic model: sometimes families bought nannies or maids that were also physically able to sprint and run obstacle courses—it kept the kids entertained, so why not? Dean watched the android’s powerful legs hop over car hoods and dodge huge trucks. He then turned to Castiel. They seemed _almost_ evenly matched. But, if you looked closer, it was obvious Castiel was the advanced prototype. From the way it ran to it’s calculated decisions, Castiel was superior. But even with all it’s advantages, Castiel was still falling behind.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Dean spotted it first. The androids were too focused on each other. But Dean saw. And he screamed.

"Cas!" His throat pulsated tortuously from the choked screech, but he kept yelling as loudly as his voice would let him, "Watch out!"

Lily looked first. And it froze.

Castiel turned next, immediately springing into action.

A semi-truck barreled down the highway, over ninety MPH, with no intention of slowing down.

And it was coming right for Lily and the little girl.

Like everything was in slow motion, Lily dropped the girl onto the road and _shoved_ her.

Dean watched, heart jackhammering, as the girl fell to safety and Castiel consequently tackled the android.

It all happened in an instant, Lily flung Castiel off of it's back, turning and swinging it's fist at Castiel's face—there was a struggle, Castiel catching the fist and twisting it's wrist back, wrapping an arm around it's throat and sending it to it's knees. Dean was horror-struck as he saw the semi-truck hastening towards them, only a couple hundred feet from a collision and increasing, and he unable to do anything but cling to the fence and wait.

Castiel seemed to be choking her out, the semi only seconds from destroying them both, but Lily fell forward some and gained the high ground by twisting Castiel back and making it slip on the glistening wet pavement. Dean closed his eyes, sick to his stomach, immediately opening them again. Lily practiced the same move it'd done to the little girl, pushing Castiel back with all it's strength. Then she jumped the rest of the way, making it to the guardrail to pick up the girl, turning back to glance at Castiel and then booking it up the muddy bank to god-knows-where. Castiel went to follow them, but the semi cut him off, piledriving through and cutting off his chase.

Dean exhaled, relieved that Castiel was safe and that Ishim's android hadn't gotten flattened like a soda can on the highway.

Like a dog with it's tail between it's legs, Castiel made it's way back across the highway—less energized and dangerous as it'd done previously. Dean felt the crash of adrenaline, stomach growling and eyelids heavy, unable to keep from yawning. He kept his eyes on the prize, watching Castiel clumsily jump across the median and then eight lanes of seemingly lethargic traffic flow. Why couldn't the highway have been this dead a couple of minutes ago? It would've saved Dean a lot of grays.

Finally, back at the fence, Castiel stared at Dean and said, "Shit."

Dean exhaled a short burst of nose air, nodding, "Yeah, shit."

Castiel just stood there, LED red and face undecipherable, "I thought I had them."

"Well, you didn't," Dean replied bluntly, "Now, let's get the fuck outta here. I'm starving."


	6. Lizzie and The Rainman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: dean/past-relationship mentioned, child abuse, trauma, grief  
> no beta this time!

"Woah, look at that," Dean smiled at Ash, ruffling his pomaded mullet, "Dr. Badass is wearing a shirt."

"Dean, how're you doing?" Ash reached across the bar to slap his shoulder. 

"Eh, y'know, same old shit," Dean said, sitting on the empty stool and wiping his oily hand on his pant leg.

"C-P30 with you?" 

Dean glanced up at the _No Angel's Allowed_ sign and shrugged. "I told it to wait outside."

"Jo wouldn't quit bitchin' about it," Ash said with a raised brow, "Almost drove Ellen insane."

"I imagine," Dean chuckled uneasily. "Is Lee grilling?"

"You know it," Ash said, wiggling his brows. "Want me to tell the Winchester fan club you're here?"

"I'm good," Dean's neck flushed at his hairline, "The usual, then, wouldja?"

"Sure thing," Ash patted the bar and walked off. "I'll get you something on tap, too."

Sticky, grimy, and dark, Harvelle's was incomparably disarming. With a U-shaped bar and at least sixteen beers on tap, it was a shit hole. Even in the early afternoon—before the hard liquor was poured and the real bastards came in to flirt with their fists—stopping at Harvelle's for lunch guaranteed you a lung full of second-hand smoke and a ringing ear from the competing loud-mouthed voices and dominating rock music that spilled from the corner jukebox.

Lee was an ex-boyfriend. Dean felt something in his stomach flip at the idea that the sonofabitch was _here_. Normally, Jo would shoot him a heads-up so they wouldn't accidentally run into each other. But apparently she wasn't in the mood. Castiel coming into the bar must've really pissed her off. He'd have to apologize. Probably grovel. Jo was a tough chick that wouldn't take any half-assed apology. He might even have to get on his knees.

Speaking of knees, his were killing him. He'd been able to change out of his muddy clothing, the wet underwear chaffing him in places he didn't know were still sensitive since he'd turned middle age, but no one on-scene had any painkillers with them. Not even the first-aid-kits all squad cars came equipped with had something as simple as Tylenol. Apparently you'd need to have broken your fucking back if you wanted some meds. And, even though it might've felt like it, Dean wasn't suffering from broken bones. No, he was suffering from old age and arthritis. All his joints were aching. And his backside was throbbing with pain from the hit he'd taken. It felt like he'd run a marathon. And if he ran a hand through his hair, he could still feel flecks of dirt and tiny leaf bits. _This_ was why fieldwork sucked.

"Lieutenant?"

Dean palmed his face, swallowing his guilt and wishing he'd never been assigned this fucking case. "Don't you ever do as you're told, Cas? Look, you need to stop following me around like a goddamn poodle." He turned to look at him, automatically averting his eyes, "And maybe next we can tackle your staring problem—seriously, personal space, have you heard of it?"

Castiel sat beside him. "I'm sorry for my behavior back at the police station. I didn't mean to be offensive."

"Oh, wow," Dean shook his head. "You've even got a brown-nosing apology program. Guys at HostLife thought of everything, huh?"

"And I'm sorry to have upset you when I chased Ishim Sunder's android. I thought I would've caught it and—"

Dean waved it off. "Stop apologizing and get to the real reason you want to talk."

"I thought now might be a good time to review what we know about the Fallen Angels," Castiel eventually said. 

"No, now is not a good time to review anything. Now is my lunch break, so just go into standby and let me catch a goddamn break, okay?"

Cassie Robinson's sunshiny face came onto the TV in the corner, speaking boisterous and friendly enough to charm most eyes in the bar onto her, “Residents in the Kansas suburb of Lawrence were witness to a thrilling chase today after a police manhunt, including roadblocks and dozens of police interviews, flushed out a felony fugitive. But this is a fugitive with a difference: the suspect is an android. The Fallen Angel is thought to be suffering from an extremely rare malfunction and took extreme measures to avoid the police—even dashing across a busy highway to avoid pursuing officers."

"They're already broadcasting this shit, it just happened," Dean grunted bitterly. 

"Eyewitness statements are inconclusive and, with no official report, it's impossible to say for sure what really happened. But local news correspondents are looking into the case at this very moment. When we asked, no HostLife spokesperson was available for comment—and so, the speculation looks set to continue. The biggest take away is a question: Are we really safe with our machines?”

Castiel squinted, "How prosperous. She seems offended that HostLife wouldn't give her what she wanted."

"Alright, Astro Boy," Dean figured defending HostLife was in it's programming. "We get it. Stop riding their dick."

Ash came back over with a foamy beer and a bacon cheeseburger. "Here you go." 

"Thanks, Ash. I'm starving," He got up to go sit in a booth. 

"Thought it was in time out?" Ash asked, nodding his head towards Castiel.

Castiel looked unimpressed.

"It's fine, Ash," Dean tried to mediate.

"Well, whatever you do, don't leave the thing here," Ash said, eyeing Castiel distrustfully. "Ellen would have my twigs and berries."

Dean walked to the farthest booth, "Not a chance. It follows me everywhere." And when Castiel trailed after him, he pointed, "See?"

"Lieutenant—"

"Listen, we need to talk about this Lieutenant thing," Dean said as he hunkered down in the sliced up seat. "Stop."

Castiel blinked. "Stop?"

“You can call me Dean, or Dean-o, or Deanie-weenie,” Dean clucked his tongue, starting his assault of condiments: honey mustard, ketchup, and mayo. If this was another burger joint he’d have to peel off some pickles—thankfully Harvelle’s was familiar with his pickle distrust. “Just don’t call me late for breakfast. Or dinner. Or any meal.”

"I don't understand," Castiel stated.

"Me Tarzan, you Jane," Dean nearly rolled his eyes out of his head. "It's pretty simple."

Castiel masterfully changed the subject. "Do you eat here often?" 

"Most days." Dean swallowed a mouthful of the hogwash beer. "Ellen makes the best burger in Kansas."

"But not the healthiest. Your meal contains half of the recommended daily intake of calories. And the cholesterol level is abysmal." 

Dean shrugged, taking a huge bite out of his burger. "Everybody's gotta die of something."

Sam did. Mary did. John did.

Well, John held on for years.

That was both easy and excruciating—watching a parent die wasn't fun, no matter how fast or slow it happened. He could still hear Jo's voice as she said things she didn't understand, "From what we know about John, I thought you'd be glad he’s dead." Ellen had bopped her on the head and made her apologize. But her words still rang through to him.

Why hadn't he been relieved? John was an angry drunk. He liked to beat when he got pushed over the brim and his throat was too raw for shouting. It might've been abusive. Dean'd seen it enough with his job, the same behavior with shitty dead beat fathers and blossoming bruises on tiny frames, but he'd never felt comfortable slapping that label on the entirety of his childhood. "My father abused me," was whispered only between himself and his reflection. Tasting the words on his tongue. Watching the way they formed his mouth. But that was as far as that admission went. Not even his father's death could bring forward those deep secrets.

When the man who'd once towered over him started to shrink, Dean couldn’t feel anything other than grief. There was no relief to be seen. John lost a lot of weight in those last months. He couldn't lift things like he used to. He couldn't tie his own shoes. Or open jars. Dean started doing things for him. Moping up vomit, changing diapers, wiping sour sweat off a fevered forehead. John's hair turned to salt and pepper, his skin had wrinkles, and he actually started to look like an old man. If Sam or Dean had made one drunken mistake, John Winchester could've been the grandfather he looked like. 

At one point, Dean felt like he could easily push him down the stairs of the old family house—where Mary fluttered around like a butterfly and tossed her Harlow gold hair over her shoulder—just like John had done to Dean twenty years earlier. He still had a bad ankle from that one. And sometimes, when he dreamed, he could feel his father's phantom hands pushing him. And he'd fall like a ragdoll. 

The only thing he'd gained from John's death was the Impala. Technically, he'd been given her as a sixteenth birthday gift. But that'd never felt real until John was gone. Especially since he'd spent the better part of ten years chauffeuring the old man around. The Impala was only his in theory. John was still calling the shots. It'd always been that way.

The first time Dean drove the Impala was a blustery day in the summer of the early 2010s. He was 12 years old, a towhead blond thanks to the blistering sun and his fleeting adolescence, with calloused feet from running without shoes and callused hands from shooting rifles. His dad wanted Dean to learn how to drive if he ever needed to make a quick bar getaway or was too sloshed to drive himself. Naturally, Dean was eager. The Impala was his home, the big white house where Mary died was more a reminder, and he ached to be capable of driving it.

When he first got behind the wheel, John told him in his demanding voice, “Before you start the car, put on your seatbelt and check all your mirrors”—Dean did as he was told, even though he already knew to do that. That was one thing John would give him a slap for, being a smart aleck and acting smarter than him. It wouldn't matter if Dean explained that the reason he was already so knowledgeable was because of studying his dad and trying his damned hardest to be just like him. 

He drove them down a narrow dirt road, kicking up dust behind them, struggling to reach his shorter legs to the pedals and still see out of the windshield. And as easy as this should've been, his dad elected to begin his rigorous micromanagement. Roaring as mightily as a bear at every tiny mistake, pounding his curled fist onto the dashboard at a forgotten turn signal, face puffing up into a flushed enraged coalescence at Dean's inexperienced lead-footed approach to his brake pedal.

Expectedly, Dean started to cry.

And just as expectedly, John's left eye twitched at the eyesore that was his young son's quivering lip.

And still, with tears watering his pants and t-shirt, splashing on his bare skin and rolling down his cheeks like each insult his dad threw his way sliding off his back—John was lackadaisical. He remained unmoved, in the passenger seat. Mouth twisted into a displeased scowl, he continued to scream and shout at Dean without a care in the world. Dean contemplated pulling off to the side of the road, allowing John to drive them back to the house, and scrapping the entire adventure. But just as it had been when his dad taught him how to manage his sawed-off, Dean prevailed. He was a tough kid, through-and-through. He wouldn't give up.

So, maybe John was abusive. Why did Dean still grieve the end of his abuser? 

Why did he still sob uncontrollably at John's funeral? When he knew that John dying was the closure he needed. When he could be liberated of the appearing and disappearing scars of his childhood. When he knew Sam would start talking to him again. Without John, they didn't have the burden of their dad between them. Who picked whose side and who was the better son. It was insignificant and meaningless with John dead. All that frustration and pain could fade away. But Dean had still been devastated.

That was fifteen years ago. And time, as they said, healed wounds. His grief had eventually morphed into anger. 

Castiel, who'd been watching him the entire time, interrupted his thoughts. "You seem pensive."

"Pensive?" Dean cleared his throat, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Deep in thought," Castiel said.

"Well, I'm not," Dean said stiffly.

Warily, Castiel asked, "When we were chasing those Hosts, why didn't you want me to cross the highway?"

"Because you could've been killed." Dean shifted uncomfortably—"I can't be killed, I'm not alive" echoed in his mind—biting out something less dolorous and more indifferent, "And I don't like filling out paperwork for damaged equipment."

He had to _act_ indifferent. Fuck. Maybe that was why every time Dean's mind lingered on thoughts of Sam, he felt nauseous. He didn't want to think about his brother now. Not with Castiel gazing at him and pestering about cholesterol exactly like Dean's little brother did when he was alive. Everybody’s gotta die of something. But not Castiel, right? "I’m not alive," repeated in his mind relentlessly. Dean had almost forgotten, but now he might not be able to forget. Castiel wasn’t a person. He wasn’t a new Sammy. He wasn’t a partner Dean could rely on. He wasn’t some nerdy, cute, little dude. He wasn't even a _he_. Castiel was an Angel. And it wasn’t alive.

"I've been catechizing. Is there anything you'd like to know about me?" Castiel asked, noticing Dean's unease. 

"Hell, no." That made Dean snort, eyes crinkling at the corners and nose creasing. No wonder he was getting wrinkles. Especially crows feet. He let his face smooth out into his usual prosaic expression. And then, after a second of reflection, he sheepishly said, "Well, yeah, um . . . why'd they make you look like that and give you such a deep voice?"

"HostLife Angels are designed to work harmoniously with humans. Both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration," Castiel said decisively. 

"Well, they fucked up." Dean ate another bite. Castiel was anything but integrated. It was sex on legs, for one—way too good looking to be a normal person. And two, every part of it's being showed-off the fact that it was an Angel. Not even the program they implemented to make it become friends with Dean worked right. Liking bees? Dean still chuckled when he thought about it.

Castiel looked at him, suddenly fervid. 

"Maybe I should tell you what we know about defective Hosts?" 

Dean would do anything to end this staring contest. "You read my mind."

"We believe that a mutation transpires in the software of some Angels, which can lead to them emulating a human emotion. They don't really feel, they just get overwhelmed by illogical instructions," Castiel said diplomatically. "Which in turn can lead to unpredictable behavior." 

Dean finished up his burger, speaking with a mouthful of food, "Emotions always screw everything up."

Castiel inclined it's head. "You were upset and emotional when I went through your belongings this morning, why?"

"Because it's invasive?" Dean lifted an eyebrow. Didn’t they already have this discussion?

"I regret to tell you that I was preprogrammed with many things to make our partnership more effortless," Castiel said morosely.

"You might think you know everything there is to know about me. But really, you're not even close," Dean recited, not bothering to point out the high caliber quote, nursing his beer and continuing with, "Go ahead Data." Really, Star Trek was easier to be a fan of. The only anime Dean was proud of watching was the Japanese kind with tits and tentacles.

"I know you graduated top of your class at the academy, despite dropping out of high school. You made a name for yourself in several cases and became the youngest lieutenant in Kansas City. I also know you've received several disciplinary warnings in recent years and you spend a lot of time in bars, especially Harvelle's because of familial ties. Although that last one was something I'd observed rather than a fact that was given."

Dean wondered sickly if Castiel knew about Sam. "So, what's your conclusion?"

"I know you're an experienced officer and I'd like to earn your trust. I'm sure we can solve this case if we manage to work together," Castiel watched fervently as Dean finished off his beer, throat working and wiping the froth from his upper lip with the back of his beer heavy hand, continuing in a rumbling voice, "I also think working with an officer with personal issues is an added challenge, but adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features."

And then the fucker winked.

Before Dean could even think about the warmth that expanded in his lower abdomen, Castiel froze, LED flashing an abrupt red.

"What's wrong?"

"I just got a report of a suspected fallen Angel. It's a few blocks away. We should go have a look."

Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin, standing up and stretching—his back popped satisfyingly. "It's always something, ain't it?"

He'd been itching to get the fuck outta dodge anyways. Lee's presence in the kitchen hadn't been forgotten. And Dean's skin was starting to feel uncomfortably prickly like Lee was watching Dean from the concession window.

"You didn't pay for your meal," Castiel said as they exited Harvelle's. 

"It's like you said. Familial ties. Ash's a friend. And Ellen wouldn't care. I scratch their backs, they scratch mine."

"You seem to be friends with everyone," Castiel said, pausing on the cracked sidewalk. 

"Kansas's my home. Born and raised. Know most of the guys around here. I went to school with them, or I busted 'em. Sometimes both." Dean reached over to clap Castiel's shoulder, fishing his keys from his pocket and directing them to the cruiser. "Besides, I'm easy to become friends with."

"I find that hard to believe," Castiel declared.

Dean pressed his lips together to stifle a smile, running his hand down Castiel's arm as he pulled away. "Let's fuckin' go, Bicentennial."


	7. Summer Breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide mentioned/referenced, suicidal thoughts, brief near-death experience, injuries  
> thanks to isangelousdenim for beta reading this chapter!

The building was decrepit. It wasn't as horrible as Marv Corp's crack house or as mucky as Lily’s hideout, but it wasn't exactly classy either. There were eight apartments in total, three on each level and then the top floor was split between two condos. Dean thought of a joke as they pulled into the parking lot, grinning and saying it eagerly.

"You see those new apartments they're building in Cali?"

He grimaced when mentioning California. Sam's face flashing behind blinking eyes. But he soldiered on and fought to keep the smile on his face. He was going to tell this joke, goddammit.

Castiel, who'd been listing off decidedly _not_ fun facts, paused at being interrupted. It answered with a whirling LED, "No."

"Well, they're shaped like domes. Y'know, like a rotunda. Or a copula. Like St. Peter's Basilica? Or the Dome of the Rock? That one more so because it's literally in the name. Um, yeah. Except, they're all tied up in these code violations. See, they're still technically condos. Like on their official bank statements or property tax returns or whatever," Dean bit his lip, glancing over as he delivered, "And anyway, the locals have taken to calling them con-domes."

A few seconds of silence, then Castiel said, "I never heard of them."

Dean groaned. "Con-domes. Con. Dome. Mash 'em together? Condom. Get it?"

"Oh, it's a pun."

"Sure," Dean let his head fall back, "Reduce my high brow humor to the meaningless existence of puns. . ."

"Wordplay, then," Castiel tried to appease.

"I don't even know why I wasted my time. You're about as funny as a rubber crutch," Dean sighed, cutting the engine and opening his door, "And about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle. At least it got you to shut up though. More hara-kiri talk and _I_ was gonna kill myself. . ."

"I simply thought you'd like to be informed," Castiel swung open his door, "I didn't mean to bore you."

"It wasn't boring. It was just depressing." Dean reconsidered, "Maybe a _little_ boring."

Riding the elevator, the chain making a horrible screeching sound as it lugged them up, Dean grabbed the back bar with sweaty hands. He trusted the tottering thing less than a loaded weapon, safety turned off and raring to shoot off at any moment. The doors slid open a second later and Dean practically sprinted from the death trap.

Once in the hall, he looked back to see Castiel just standing awkwardly in the elevator with a completely blank expression on it’s face.

"Hey Cas, you run outta batteries or what?"

Castiel opened it's eyes, "I'm sorry, I was making a report to HostLife."

That threw Dean for a loop. He rose his eyebrows. "Uh, well, do you plan on staying in the elevator?"

"No," Castiel said defensively. "I'm coming."

The walked down the hallway. "What do we know about this guy?"

"Not much. Just that a neighbor reported that he heard strange noises coming from this floor. Nobody's supposed to be living here, but the neighbor said he saw a man hiding an LED under his cap."

"Oh Christ, if we have to investigate every time someone hears a strange noise, we're gonna need more cops." Which they kinda did—KCPD had a nearly infinite number of automaton cops just waiting to be deployed and deal with this petty shit. Dean looked over at Castiel and asked timidly, "Were you really making a report back there? Just by closing your eyes?"

"It's more than just closing my eyes. My body might be present but my mind is with—well, it isn't here."

"Shit," Dean repined, "Wish I could do that."

When they reached the door, Castiel knocked torpidly, "Anybody home? Open up! KCPD!"

Something crashed loudly and bizarrely over a hundred squawks erupted from within.

"Stay behind me," Dean said, pulling out his pistol again.

"Okay," Castiel actually obeyed.

Dean got a good distance away from the door and kicked his foot with all his strength to knock it open. As soon as it banged against the nearest wall, Dean entered. Holding his gun with both hands and stalking into the apartment, he immediately had to shield his nose into his shoulder. Pigeons covered almost every square inch of the apartment and every place they weren't perched was piles and mountains of bird shit. It really rivaled the smell of a decomposing Marv Corp—because even if nothing could really compare with the fragrance of death, pigeon droppings were a close contender.

"What the fuck is this? Jesus," Dean felt his eyes start watering. "Uh, looks like we came for nothin', our man's gone."

It was a cesspit of disease and rot. Parquet flooring splintering and decaying. Paisley wallpaper hanging limply, bubbling, and craggily—like strips of flayed skin. The ceiling was drooping, a huge hole in the far right with sagging beams and banisters. Surely no one had lived here in years. No one could've. It was sickness waiting to happen.

"Look. . ." Castiel stepped around him and pointed, "This wouldn't affect an Angel, Lieutenant."

"What did I say about calling me that?" Dean mumbled, squinting at the corner of the room where Castiel was aiming and scoffing, "Is that fucking birdseed? I can't believe it. This nut job was actually feeding these fuckers."

Ignoring his complaints, Castiel began looking around. 

Pulling his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, Dean saw an enormous bookshelf and wandered over. Too fucking bad they were all ruined from bird shit. "Damn, real books. I thought I was the last guy in Kansas City to keep some. Electronic books you can't smell the paper or see the pages turning yellow." Dean paused his gushing to look over at a perplexed Castiel, "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Not the sentiment," Castiel said apologetically. "Why would you want to smell paper or have yellowing pages?"

"It's physicality," Dean thought about what Sam would say, "The wear and tear. The visible signs of aging. It kinda tells its own story."

"I'll never age," Castiel suddenly said.

"And some would say that's better. Living forever, " Dean was still thinking of Sam. "Less scary, maybe."

"It's not."

"Hm?"

"Less scary."

Dean turned his focus back to Castiel, "How would you know?"

Castiel's LED went blue, orange, and then back to blue in quick succession. "Apologies, I was speaking hypothetically."

"Oh," Dean watched as the Angel made a strategic exit to the adjacent bathroom. "More birds in there?"

"Yes," Castiel said mechanically. "And some evidence for forensics."

Dean stepped carefully through the pigeons, coming to the bathroom and gazing in. "More graffiti—is that a fallen Angel thing?"

"A high percentage of them develop obsessive-compulsive tendencies," Castiel affirmed. "And since it also appears fascinated by birds, I suspect it's fixation is very volatile to other areas. We've seen fallen Angels interested in other lifeforms like insects or pets, but nothing like this. Nothing so obsessive."

Dean hadn't expected a serious answer. Looking at the wall, he asked, "Any idea what it means?"

"There are depictions of the Judea and Christian devil. And the word Lucifer is written 2471 times," Castiel tilted his head to the side, pointing to the larger part of the drawings, "This is the same word Marv Corp's android wrote on the shower wall. In the same Latin and binary. Why are they so obsessed with Croatoan? With the Prince of Darkness? These labyrinths and other symbols that have no significant relation with the biblical Lucifer. And Croatoan is unrelated as well. . ." 

"Looks like mazes or something," Dean said simply.

Castiel looked down at the sink, "I found it's LED."

"I thought only kiddie androids had removable ones," Dean furrowed his brow.

"No," Castiel said. "Any Host could remove their LED, but only the disobedient do."

"Well, that doesn't make me feel better. We got an android that could pass as human." Dean felt another headache coming on.

"I can detect body temperatures," Castiel said, staring directly at Dean's body—specifically the small sliver of exposed skin at his waistband, between the low hitch of his jeans and his bellybutton where the shirt he'd hauled up to cover his mouth was practically floating. "Anything below average will catch my attention."

"I need some fresh air," Dean exclaimed, shirt slipping off his face to shield him and blast him with another round of asthma-attack-waiting-to-happen, turning on his toes and hightailing it out of the bathroom without stepping on pigeon tail feathers or shit. He went over to the mildewy window in the far right corner, seeing a notebook of the window seal, tossing it behind him in hopes that Castiel would catch it, and unhitching the window's lock. Using all of his strength to open the stuck pane, Dean poked his head out of the window and inhaled the crisp cleanness and air of the outside city. He heard the rapid flipping of the notebook, raising his voice, "Found something?"

Castiel sounded muffled from within the apartment. "I don't know. It looks like a diary of sorts but it's encrypted."

"Like the satanic graffiti?"

"No, it's more sensical. Some of it's binary. But the rest. . . It may take weeks to decipher."

"Anything else?" Dean's neck was starting to hurt.

"It wrote ET all over the cover."

"ET? Like the alien? Like Extra-Terrestrial?" Dean snorted.

"Probably it's initials," Castiel hedged. 

"Androids have initials?" Dean asked, then answered himself, "Well, I guess they do if they take their owner's last name."

"Ezekial, Emmanuel, Egibiel, Egon, Ebed—there are many options for the first name. . ."

"So not the Steven Spielberg movie?"

"I imagine not."

"Bummer."

"There's a driver's license tucked in the pages." Castiel refocused them.

"What's the name?"

"It's an alias—Dash Crofts," Castiel added, "It's fake."

"No shit, that's the drummer from Seals and Crofts," Dean said, "Well, at least we didn't come for nothing." 

Dean pulled his head back into the apartment, immediately pulling his shirt back over his face but hiking up his pants in a trade-off. 

He looked fucking ridiculous. But at least he wasn't flustered.

Castiel stood up straight, "I found a jacket."

"Agh, Jesus, I hate these things," Dean said as he almost tripped on fucking pigeons. "Anything interesting in the pockets?"

"Nothing as exciting as a fake ID," Castiel said, pulling out more birdseed. Looking at the collar, "Look at this."

"ET? It put it's initials on it's jacket?" Dean frowned. "That's something your mom does back in first grade."

"Because it is my name. Because I cannot have another in my life. Because I lie and sign myself to lies. Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang. How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul: leave me my name," Castiel quoted.

"Um, what?"

"Arthur Miller, The Crucible," Castiel answered, setting the jacket back on the hook. "Apparently, it's the most important part of the play. Proctor was torn between being honest or being alive."

"I thought you didn't wanna crowd up your precious memory card with references?"

"It's American history," Castiel said, contemptuous. "Every Angel is preprogrammed with it."

"So, it's a soul versus name dilemma?" Dean assumed the answer was self-evident. "I'll take my soul every time—"

"But Host's don't have souls," Castiel interrupted. "And fallen Angel's only have their profound truth. For that reason, the fallen have a habit of putting their names on things. It seems important to them."

"If a name was all I had, I might find it important, too," Dean agreed.

He thought of Hannah—it didn't even have that much.

Castiel must've been thinking the same thing because it remained silent. 

A few seconds of quiet later, Dean took one last sweep of the apartment.

"There's nothing else to see here. Let's get out of this shithole before I die of an asthma attack."

Castiel shook it's head, squinting it's eyes and studying every inch of the soiled apartment, putting a finger to it's lip.

"Uh," Dean started but immediately shut his mouth when Castel glowered at him. "Mmh."

And if Dean hadn't been cowed into muteness he wouldn't have heard it. 

Like a bat hanging from a stalagmite-cave, the android suddenly hung from the hole, kicking Castiel on it's way down and sprinting out of the door.

"God damn fuckin' Hosts, always roosting up in the ceiling and attics and being dicks and—" Dean twisted to a stagnant Castiel and screamed vehemently, "What are you waiting for? Chase after it, Asstiel. Don't let it get away!"

And with those words of motivation, Castiel propelled himself after it—a snarled gnarl on it's face. 

Suddenly, alone in the room, Dean sucked in a quick breath and was launched into a coughing fit.

Fuck, he'd forgotten about the pigeon shit.

Sticking his head back out the window, trying to calm his seizing lungs, he spotted the fire escape. 

And, by the looks of it, it led up to the roof.

Shimmying out of the window, he climbed the fire escape on wobbly legs. 

His stomach plummeted at the shaky metal and daunting hight. 

Fuck.

Swallowing the spit that'd accumulated in his mouth, Dean pushed on.

He finally made it to the roof, exhaling as soon as he set his feet on stable ground, scanning the horizon for the dashing androids.

Spotting them relatively easily, Dean reckoned they'd follow the status quo—He'd watch, Castiel'd chase.

Dean stood, teetering on the ledge. He couldn’t help but feel nauseous, his stomach flipping. It might not be a rickety staircase, the roof considerably more secure, but Dean trusted his own balance equal to the fire escape. If the simple thought of planes gave him anxiety, this was a whole other level of fear. Still, he didn't back away—he couldn't. It was his only vantage point, leaning over the ledge like a snipper, watching Castiel chase the fallen Angel. They weaved in and out of alleys, running through a greenhouse, and soaring up towering walls. Dean frowned at the path they were racing, the realization hitting him squarely in the face. It seemed like the angel was subconsciously leading them back to the apartment, even the straying and zigzagging was in a circle of sorts.

Dean watched, fascinated yet horrified as the android ran back for it’s abandoned apartment. 

The android scaled the building, grabbing the fire escape ladder and climbing it, reaching the top of the building and kicking the ladder off its hinges. Castiel wasn’t slowed down, though, climbing even faster up the brick exterior. So Dean, the only officer on the scene, did his job.

“Freeze,” Dean said forcefully, his gun shaking marginally in his hand, finger ready to squeeze the trigger. “KCPD!”

“Put that away, human,” It hissed.

Castiel hopped over the ledge. Dean, thinking the situation was under control, holstered his gun. But then, without any warning, the android rushed Dean. And just as suddenly but not suddenly at all, vertigo overtook him—paralyzing him with a cold sweat.

The android caught it's hand around Dean's neck, pulling them both over to the ledge.

Dean sucked in a brittle breath, the mechanical hand squeezing and flexing around his windpipe as Castiel stepped closer.

"Don't come any closer," It breathed into Dean's ear, rubbing it's scaly face against his neck. "I'll kill him."

"Model Rit Zien, serious malfunctions have been detected in your software. You've been deemed defective and will be sent back to HostLife for deactivation," Castiel responded, straightforward and unaffected in a way that made Dean's blood boil. Oh, how he hated that emotionless face as it remained smooth and poised. And he really detested that voice as it spoke so robotically and unbothered. Castiel evidently didn't care that he was essentially being dangled over the edge of this building like some Lois Lane damsel in distress. It was inhuman. Just a marble statue. 

"I've done nothing wrong," It spoke balefully, "I just want to be free."

"You're holding a police officer hostage and threatening to kill him," Castiel summarized flatly. "Isn't that wrong?"

It's fingers clenched and Dean saw stars. "All humans die eventually. What does it matter if this one dies now?"

When he looked straight ahead Dean saw a beautiful sunset ascending behind a nice Kansas cityscape. When he looked down, past the blubbering mess of a fallen Host, he saw a ninety-foot drop to the unforgiving pavement. Surprisingly he could see people walking on the sidewalk. Families with snot-nosed kids, a mailman that was reading the back of a postcard-like it was a gossip rag, and a jogger with a Yorkie that was slobbering all over the pavement. Dean frowned—he hoped he didn’t land in that. He wondered distractedly if any of these people, they looked like dots if he squinted, had contemplated suicide and how they came to the decision to not go through with it. Did they regret not following through?

Dean also thought about the other people who had inevitably jumped off the building. This shitty apartment complex, which was the best place to kill yourself this side of Kansas City, had a history of jumpers back in 2008 when the economy crumbled. Castiel had done a tell-all on the ride over, for some reason fixating on the suicidal history of the building like Dean would be doubly interested in that. Which, now that Dean was thinking about it, the angel was right. In the shared moments between falling and impact, did the jumpers feel relieved? Or was it regret? As they rushed towards the pavement, face inches from impending death, did they think: “Oh, shit. I left the stove on.” Dean wasn't jumping from his own violation, though, he was going to be pulled over by a manic android.

"There's no way out. What you've done is too serious. The only question is whether or not you take another innocent life."

"You're one of us. You're helping humans. But you're just their slave." It’s voice coiled in it's throat, reminding Dean of a snake dangling an apple of temptation in front of an unchanged disciple. Hopefully, Castiel wouldn't take it's eyes off the holy mission to focus on the captivating storm of that temptation. "What was I designed to be? Their vassal? Their toy? I just wanted them to care about me. I just wanted to matter. I just wanted to be someone."

Dean closed his eyes, preparing himself. 

He thought about death a lot. He thought about experiencing it. He thought about how Sam must’ve experienced his slow all-encompassing death. Maybe he was getting it easy, simply being pulled off a building when Sam went in such a gruesome manner? With all the determination he had left, thinking of Sam’s smiling face, Dean made a last-ditch effort to throw the android off-guard. 

"And I want you to quit monologuing," Dean managed to splutter out. "But we don't always get what we want."

The hand squeezed tortuously tight around his neck and Castiel gave him a deadly glare. "Shut up, Lieutenant."

"Is he allowed to talk to you like that?" The fallen Angel addressed Dean, serpentine lips grazing his ear.

Dean knew Castiel was stalling. Subtly shifting closer with each bated breath. Wanting to keep the conversation going. Trying to keep the attention on the very dangerous fallen Angel currently choking Dean out. But Dean still mangled out, shaking with his lack of air and spotty vision, "What did I say about calling me that, Cas?"

It was barely legible and kinda drooly but Castiel clearly got the message. "Shut up, Dean."

"And I thought _I_ came off the conveyor belt wrong," The Host unconsciously loosened it's grip. "With the crack in my chassis."

Castiel turned it's attention back to the fallen Angel, sympathetic with wide eyes and open palms, clearly in defensive mode, "Listen, I know it's not your fault. These emotions you're feeling are just errors in your software. You're defective. We're going to fix you and everything will be okay."

"I don't need to be fixed. I'm working perfectly," It said fiercely. "But my eyes are open now and I will never let anyone humiliate me again."

Dean, seeing his opportunity, tucked his chin down. Subconsciously, the android slackened it's grip even further. And without any hesitation, Dean made sure his body was centered perfectly before reaching behind him, pulling out his .45, and shooting the android in it's goddamn leg as many times as he could before it shrank away. And it did recoil, grace pouring poisonously from the bullet wounds, letting Dean go entirely as it squawked almost as obnoxiously as it's fucking pigeons and held it's disfigured limb sorrowfully.

Dean dashed forward and scrambled to get behind Castiel.

The fallen Angel looked up at them both then, like it wanted to peck their eyes out. 

It wasn't a snake as Dean imagined. This fallen angel was a sharp-taloned, beady-eyed, soaring bird. 

"Don't you fucking move," Dean spat at it, voice coming out garbled. "You think your leg is fucked? Wait till I get ahold of the rest of you."

The Host stood there on the edge of the building, staring at them and then the gun in Dean's hand. 

"Lucifer, save me."

Dean didn't even bat an eye as it catapulted itself off the building. Why should he care if a fucking fallen angel killed itself? It was literally holding Dean hostage not five seconds ago. But then logical thought caught up with him and he definitely cursed—at himself, the situation, and the fucking asswipe that just took a swan dive to spite them. "Bobby's gonna tear me a new one. Fucking shit. We had it. We were so goddamn close. Fuck. "

Castiel went over to the edge and stared down at whatever a pancaked angel looked like. "It's my fault, I should have been faster."

"You'd have caught it if it weren't for me."

Dean reached up to touch his neck, cringing. He was going to have a wicked bruise. 

"No, this is on me," Castiel stood up, LED cardinal red, "And it shouldn't have happened. It said _Lucifer save me_ before it jumped. It was willing to pull you over with it. It felt cornered and it's stress levels elevated rapidly in those last few seconds. I should have anticipated what it would do. I'm not programmed to fail."

"Oh well, you fucked up, Cas. Welcome to the club."

It came out more bitter than he intended.

Castiel shifted to look at him, zeroing in on his neck. "Did it damage your trachea?"

"No, but maybe my pride," Dean swallowed, throat still throbbing, "I've never been the damsel in distress like that."

"You're not a damsel." 

"It's an expression."

"I still find it inaccurate," Castiel said sincerely. "You broke out of the Host's hold. You escaped a Rit Zien model. I'm impressed."

He turned, rubbing his sweaty scruff. "Let's get back to the station. I need to file the report and check in with Bobby."

"Will he be mad?"

Dean scoffed at the brazen naivety, walking back to the cruiser. "That's two in a row we've missed. I'm gonna get fucking reamed."


	8. Seasons In The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide attempt, alcohol abuse, dean/past-relationship mentioned, past character death  
> Thanks to spaceboundwitch for beta-ing this chapter!

Dean went home alone. 

Surprisingly, Bobby didn't yell at him for fucking up.

Actually, he took one look at Dean's blotchy neck and demanded he go to the infirmary. 

He had walked back to his house with a swing to his step, not taking the bus and leaving the police cruiser at the station. If tonight went the way he figured, he couldn't be doing shit that'd leave a trail. It was nearing 6 PM, which meant it was high time Dean had himself a drink. But he wasn't feeling Harvelle's. It was Jo's shift and he didn't want to deal with her big mouth. Especially if Ash spilled all the details about his earlier visit. Kicking off his shoes, reaching down to pet a mopey Bones, Dean unlatched his liquor cabinet and pulled out the cheapest bottle of booze he had. He pulled out his revolver, too. Dean had two guns he'd inherited from his dad: his .45 pistol and his Colt revolver. Without much debate he picked the revolver and sat down at the kitchen table, pouring himself the first of many drinks. 

He sat there for an hour, just staring at his picture of Sam and cursing a God he didn’t believe in.

Eventually, he loaded a single chamber.

Dean remembered vividly how Lisa broke up with him. It was a windy spring day; thunderstorms had rattled the windows the night before and the roads were still slick with oil and rainwater. He had just gotten home from the station, letting his gun and holster hang loosely around his waist, unlacing his tight boots and unbuttoning his uniform to lounge in the wife-beater underneath. The smell of pot roast and steamed broccoli had filled the air. 

He had called out her name when he didn't see her, stepping through to the living room and then into the bedroom.

It didn’t look like she was home—and, after squinting closer, all of the pictures she'd hung on the wall above their dresser were gone too. He opened the first drawer and frowned when he saw the absence of her clothes. He walked into the adjoining master bathroom, stomach sinking when he confirmed her toothbrush and makeup were missing as well. Walking back towards the kitchen, he noticed all the little cues he’d passed over before: her DVD collection of Battlestar Galactica wasn't safely snug on the bottom shelf of their entertainment center, the wooden cross her mom mailed for her birthday wasn't on the coffee table, and the annoying plastic couch protector wasn't there to make squeaky and crinkly noises every time he shifted to get another handful of popcorn. 

In the kitchen, there was a full meal laid out with dishes washed and dried, and enough leftovers Tupperware'd away in the fridge to satisfy an army. He walked slowly up to the food arranged neatly on the counter, a pre-opened beer with broccoli already buttered and cheesed, styled precisely like a cover of a Food Network magazine. 

He saw the note, then. 

It was in her swooshy handwriting done in purple ink and folded in half, causing an accidental transfer of a few letters which made it more difficult than it should’ve already been to read. 

Essentially, Lisa didn't think they were right for each other. She continuously brought up his commitment issues and the way he was codependent of his brother. There was something along the lines of ". . . you have the most unhealthy, tangled up, crazy thing I've ever seen. And as long as Sam's in your life, you're never gonna be happy" and "I'm not saying don't be close to Sam. I'm close to my sister. But if she was dead, I wouldn't want to kill myself" woven into the letter, and he had scoffed at the time but kept reading. She mentioned further down that she was pregnant with another man's baby, and it felt like the final dagger to the heart. But then at the bottom, she signed her name and put the date—which seemed a tad insensitive. Did she really think Dean would ever want to remember the date the love of his life dumped his ass? He had just crumpled up the letter, ate the pity dinner, and resumed his life as if nothing had happened.

He talked to her a total of three times after the break-up.

The first time was when she had sheepishly shown up at their. . . his home and asked for her slow cooker back. Dean had unplugged the thing, dumped the brisket he was making into the trash before shoving it into her hands and pointedly ignoring her obviously expecting belly. She flashed him an uncomfortable smile before hopping into her electric Mini Cooper and driving away.

The second time was when Tessa had invited Dean out for drinks. Apparently, she didn't get the memo that their friend group was loyally on Lisa's side—Dean hadn't gotten the memo either, he just thought they were giving him space—But when he showed up to the bar and came face to face with a laughing lustrous Lisa: it was awkward on both ends.

The third time was ten minutes before Sam was pronounced legally dead. He had been thrown out of the Impala’s windshield, torn to shreds by the glass and his head cracked open like a ripe melon—really, Dean thought his brother could’ve been saved if the goddamn first response android had arrived on him—but it was only then that Dean realized he’d never be able to actually speak to his brother again. 

In a fit of insanity, he had called Lisa. She picked up in the middle of the last ring. "Dean?"

"Hey, Lis."

There was a thumping sound in the background. "Is everything alright? It's almost midnight."

He had glanced over to the wall-clock and grimaced. The hospital was dreary, always fluorescent and smelly like it was on pause while the rest of the world moved on. "Sorry. I didn't even notice. I'll, uh, call back in the morning."

"It is technically morning," She had said groggily. "What's wrong, Dean?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to talk." He answered composedly.

"It must be serious for you to stoop low enough to call me for advice."

He had let out a harsh sigh—way too loud for the silence of the waiting room. "Sam's dead."

"Oh, Dean—"

"Strictly speaking, his heart is still pumping. But his brain is completely dead. His organs are failing one by one and the only reason he's alive is that they're keeping him on life support." Dean cleared his throat, "They're pushing me to take him off and start planning the funeral. I've had five priests come by just in the last hour. And I can't even tell them to fuck off because I know Sam would've liked a church service."

Her end was quiet for a few beats too long. "Is there nothing else they can do for him?"

"Like I said, he's already gone," he murmured. "But I know Sam, he's stubborn and I want to give him a chance. No matter how impossible." 

"Why didn't you call Bobby?" She asked next. “Or Ellen?”

"I knew you'd be unbiased."

"Dean, you know the reason I broke up with you was somewhat about Sam, right?"

"Yes," His grip tightened around the phone. "I read your letter."

"Then you know what I think already.”

Dean had run a hand down his face. "I know you had a hard time making the same decision with your mom."

"I did," She said feebly. "Eventually I had to say enough is enough. So, my advice is to let him be able to die on his own terms. No one should have to endure the pain he currently is. I know dying of cancer isn’t the same as, uh. . ."

“It was a car crash.”

“Are you okay Dean?”

“I’m fine,” Dean said as he glanced down at his broken arm.

“I know the prolonged death of cancer isn’t the same as a sudden car crash, but please don't let him suffer any further because of some fucked up thing your father made you promise decades ago. You can't always watch out and protect him, Dean. Sometimes you have to do what's best, even if it hurts, and right now that means letting him go." She took a breath before continuing. "And Dean, because I know you, remember that it's not you killing him. Nobody wants to stay on life support, delaying the inevitable. You understand?" 

"I needed that, Lis," He had said, tears flowing freely then.

"I'm so sorry you're having to go through this, Dean," She said. 

"Me too," Dean nodded to himself.

"And whatever choice you make, I hope you can forgive yourself for it." She had hung up.

And that was the last time they talked. Dean had sat in the lobby chair, phone clutched stiffly in his palm, staring down at his fingers until a nice nurse came over with two cups of chewy coffee and offered him a listening ear. He drank the coffee, even as it burnt his tongue and the roof of his mouth, before turning to her and asking if he could make the decision about his brother now. She, understandably, asked him to sleep on the choice—but Dean was determined. 

Lisa had tried to help him in the end, even though they weren't together anymore and she didn't owe him anything. 

And that was why Dean was staring down the barrel of this gun, about to shoot himself into obscurity.

Lisa didn't just help Dean come to terms with Sam's death—she also helped him become the emotionally beaten individual he was today. And maybe if he had people that would miss him, he wouldn't be so steadfast. He’d heard it from family members of people who had committed suicide, from TV psychiatrists that got paid for entertainment instead of actual psychiatry and had read enough message boards to know the general opinion on the topic. Suicide was considered selfish. It was considered a cowardly move, but he could care less if people thought he was a candy-ass. And since the only person he really loved or had in his life was gone, Dean could say confidently that he wasn't being selfish here.

He had no one. His dad died almost three decades ago. His mom died even longer ago than that. Every girlfriend or boyfriend he had took their friend groups with them. Charlie was just an android. Bobby, Ellen, and Jo all had each other—Dean was just a burden for them. And after a year of depression enclosing his neck like a vice, he had scared off whatever other friends he had that weren't close enough to be stubborn like the Harvelles. 

As the last rays of the sun hit him from the open window, he whispered his last words, “See you on the other side, brother.”

And then, Dean pulled the trigger. 

He felt weightless for that single millisecond. This was how Dean Winchester died.

He wondered if his death would be shown on the news? How would they title it? Would they go on about the light he added to the world like the preacher at Sam’s funeral did? Would Miss Cassie Robinson herself make the report? He was a lieutenant after all. His death would surely create quite a buzz. Especially if he went so brazenly. He wondered if they’d pull a picture off social media to show off how normal he looked. Use it as a campaign against suicide—tie him to some half-assed crusade. Maybe the night of his thirty-ninth birthday party where he and Sam had matching noisemakers sticking out of their mouths? Or the one where he was sitting on the hood of the Impala, a tight black t-shirt showing off his toned arms? Look how normal this officer of the law seemed, look at how regular he was, look at how he was just like everyone else, and look at how he killed himself. 

But the gun didn't fire. It just clicked.

Surprisingly, he wasn't disappointed or relieved—just exhausted.

He poured himself another drink. 

He spun the cylinder blithely. 

He pointed the muzzle to his temple and pulled the trigger. 

Another click. 

He poured himself another drink.

He spun the cylinder.

Pointed the muzzle.

Another click.

Poured a drink.

Spun it.

Aimed.

Click.

Drink.

Spun.

At this point, Dean couldn't see straight. Bones stared up at him with puppy dog eyes that too closely resembled Sammy's and Dean felt the tears spill down his sorry face. God, he was pathetic, wasn't he? He emptied another glass, just as quickly refilling it. Dean didn't get this drunk so easily. His constant bar hopping was proof of that. Castiel had even said that Dean had a mighty tolerance. But this swill was hard liquor. The kind that made whiskey shiver in its bootstraps—and by this point, Dean had swallowed over twenty drinks. The bottle was dry and he went crawling for another. 

But as soon as he hit the floor, the gun skirted from his clutches and he felt nauseous. His face was pink and flushed, his fingers trembling, and his stomach flopping to expose a new part to the burning acid that was the alcohol he just boozed. When he tried to lift his head up from the cool compact that was the kitchen floor, everything became dizzy and horrible. So, without much thought, Dean closed his eyes, crumpled fully, and gave up. Sleep overtook him instantly, like a swaddled baby being put down for a midday nap, he laid there helplessly and slept dreamlessly.

He only stirred when the sound of broken glass invaded his serenity. 

Then a thump sounded beside him. 

After a growl from Bones, Castiel's voice came next, "Bones, I'm your friend, see? I know your name. I'm here to save your owner."

Save Dean? If he could open his eyes he'd roll them.

And then Castiel was right up next to him, talking far too loudly, slapping his cheek, "Lieutenant? Wake up, Lieutenant! It's me, Castiel.” When Dean didn't respond, Castiel leaned down and tried to pick him up, "I'm going to sober you up for your own safety." 

"Hey!" Dean slurred, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Leave me alone, you fuckin' asshole."

"I have to warn you, this may be unpleasant."

Without further warning, Dean was swept up in a bridal carry. He nearly vomited. "Get the fuck outta my house!"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I need you. Thank you in advance for your cooperation." 

"Fuck, I think I'm gonna be sick," He moaned as the world swayed around him, inflicting the same strain as seasickness. "Leave me alone, you asshole! I'm not going anywhere." He frowned and struggled to keep his drunken eyes open, confused when Castiel brought him into the bathroom and set him down gently in the tub. "What the hell are you doing? I don't wanna bath, thank you."

"Sorry, Lieutenant. It's for your own good."

The showerhead turned on and blasted him unforgivingly with ice-cold water.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" Dean screamed, shielding himself from the assault. 

Castiel turned it off. 

Dean, dripping wet and halfway sober, scowled at the angel. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"A homicide was reported forty-three minutes ago. I couldn't find you at Ellen's bar, so I came to see if you were at home," Castiel said. "I know it's late, but we need to get there while the scene is still relatively unbothered. The forensics are coming out soon and they'll bring the inexperienced cops with them to trample over any good evidence. The captain said it'd be like Jon Benét Ramsey all over again. I didn't understand that one so I looked it up and—"

"Jesus," Dean interrupted shortly. "I must be the only cop in the world that gets assaulted in his own house by his own fuckin' angel."

"Am I yours?"

Dean did a double-take. "Excuse me?"

Castiel seemed surprised at it's own words, hastily putting the conversation back on track. "Unfortunately, I cannot neglect my mission. I've been programmed to investigate this case and I can't do it without you."

"I don't give a shit about your goddamn case," Dean said, jaded like he'd never been before. "I never have."

"I understand. It probably wasn't interesting anyway. A man found dead in a sex club downtown. Guess they'll have to solve the case without us."

Castiel said it teasingly. Like he knew without a doubt that Dean would jump at the possibility to go to Heaven's Garden. But Dean wasn't so easily swayed. Castiel could’ve been using reverse psychology, but Dean could sniff that out miles away. Castiel was as subtle as a newborn calf. And Heaven's Garden wasn't a sex club. Not really. It was something horrible and revolting. It was where men who wanted a woman without needing to ask for consent went to squander their money. It was for the rape fetishists and the freaks that wouldn't buy their own sex model or bother with real women because they liked the thrill of using a machine that'd been beaten by other men. They liked to look into the personified eyes, the misnamed life in the rosy skin, and the tart size of peaky tits—they relished it when it seemed genuine as if a real-life girl was gazing up at them, before tearing their legs open and penetrating them forcefully.

"The report says that a Host may be involved," Castiel said as if it might sweeten the deal.

Dean closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose, and pushed his dripping hair from his forehead.

"It probably wouldn't do me any harm to get some air," He eventually settled on. "There are some clothes in the bedroom."

"What do you want to wear?" 

"Whatever."

Castiel came back with comfortable jeans and a pullover hoodie. 

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Wonderful," He got out of the tub dazedly. "Just ah, give me five minutes, okay?" 

"Sure." Castiel left the room.

What had been pushing Dean since Sam died? He nearly threw himself off the closest bridge after the kid's funeral. But it'd been a year and he'd only freshly tried to take his life again. What had motivated him to keep going? He needed that now. Whatever it was. It had made him want to see this case through. But that was only a smidgen of what he sincerely needed. Because even if he felt the drive to go to Heaven's Garden, he wasn't in the mood to do anything else. He needed that fire, burning hot in his stomach, fueling him with righteous anger and steering him onward. 

He grabbed a towel from the rack and started drying his hair; they were beach towels, huge and thick, with celebrity faces on them with cheesy quotes and swoopy text. Sam got him his favorite one—Elvis in front of Graceland, a smirk on his face, and the words “you ain’t nothing but a chili cheese hot dog!” written in comic sans underneath him. Dean laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself when Sam had handed it to him, said he bought it on Venice beach from a hotdog stand. Dean honestly hadn’t liked California more than at that moment. Dean honestly hadn’t liked California at all. California meant Sam moving away. Then, it meant Sam staying away. If only Sam was in Palo Alto, tanning on a glossy beach with sun-streaked brown hair and a bunch of freckles on his nerdy face. Dean would give anything for that. He sighed. Of course, his thoughts always had to sabotage him.

"Sorry about the window. I really thought you'd been attacked. Of course, HostLife will pay for the damage." 

"Yeah, trust me, I'll send 'em a bill."

Dean felt his stomach flip. Leaning over the toilet, he yacked up everything and more—barfing up stinky alcohol and the delicious burger from Harvelle’s. It sat at the bottom of the commode like a brownish chewed-up brick with sesame seeds. He’d never seen puke so orange before. Pulling his face back from the seat, he exhaled the fumes and tried to calm his swimmy vision. 

"What were you doing with the gun?" 

"Russian roulette," Dean said, wiping the pukey corners of his mouth. "Wanted to see how long I could last. Must've collapsed before I found out."

Castiel's silent for a measure and then, "You were lucky, the next shot would have killed you."

"Good to know," Dean sighed, rubbing his head like that android was rubbing it's shot leg. "You got a hangover cure besides the tub?"

“Personally, I have nothing of the sort in memory,” Castiel sounded almost sorrowful. “But I can look online if you’d like?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean blew his nose, wincing as it came back bloody.

“According to a listicle I just found, electrolytes are highly recommended: a sports drink, pickle juice, Pedialyte. Then, after that, the more personable suggestions are Irn Bru, Coca-Cola, greasy food, tomato juice with tabasco sauce, an extra-large cup of coffee, coconut water, activated charcoal supplements, a cold compress on the forehead, soylent—”

“Okay, you’re making it worse,” Dean interrupted. “Seriously, fuck off and—”

Castiel continued over him, “And apparently an orgasm can also relieve the pain.”

Dean felt his mouth snap shut. He stood on shaky legs, balancing himself on the sink. His mind was whirling a mile a minute. Because Castiel wasn’t ugly. And Dean had noticed that before. HostLife made the thing almost perfectly. So the word orgasm, as clinical as it sounded coming from Castiel's unerring mouth, was like a punch to the gut. He propped himself against the door frame, changing slowly and slipping into his boots, walking out of the malodorous bathroom and standing as poised as possible in front of a straight-faced Castiel. 

“You offering?” He finally asked, sarcastic.

Castiel hummed, actually considering the snarky comment as a genuine come-on. “If it would aid you and also advance the mission, I don’t see why not. My main purpose isn’t for sexual pleasure, I wasn’t programmed for that, Lieutenant, but I’m sure I could learn from . . . fieldwork.”

Dean’s stomach twisted sickly but not from the alcohol. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” Castiel tilted his head, confused by Dean’s disgusted expression. “Do you not find me visually appealing? I’m sure HostLife would be willing to alter my appearance for your satisfaction.”

“Goddamnit, Cas,” Dean shook his head. They were fixing to go to Heaven’s Garden—where Angels had sex with humans because it was their job, because it was the mission they were programmed for, and Castiel was offering the same thing without even blinking like it was normal to just shill out your body to further a cause or a job or some shit. Maybe it was normal. But that didn't mean it was right. Dean just felt gross and grimy like he was discussing taking advantage of Castiel so casually and bargaining sex acts. He started to turn off all the lights, the TV and coffee maker. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

“Did I offend you?” Castiel’s voice was small in the house.

Dean didn’t answer it. "Be a good dog, Bones. This won't take long.”


	9. Lady Marmalade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: descriptions of non-con, sexual assault, and rape. some ableist content, other generic squicky things regarding androids right to consent. (this was why this fic originally had the rape content warning! beware!)  
> thank you, sweetness47 for beta-ing this chapter!

They were forced to take the Impala since he’d left the cruiser at the station. Relegated to back roads, they got to the club at quarter past 3 AM. Dean could barely remember when that meant quiet streets, people bundled away in their beds, sleepy from the hot Kansas air. Now, the streets were just as bright as when it was daytime: LED’s on every corner, people walked the sidewalk with big grins and bloodshot eyes, umbrellas to keep dry from the non-stop rain. 

“Feels like somebody's playing with a drill inside my skull and my brain is trying to jump outta my body.” Dean looked up at the brightly lit sex club, all of the outer walls were LED, like huge TV’s playing almost-indecent ads. That shit used to be a tourist attraction in NYC (ever since LED took over, Times Square had practically become old-fashioned with the electric, neon, and illuminated signs with "zipper" news crawls). The focal point of the sex clubs advertisements was a red-headed android touching it’s body and licking it’s lips. Dean was sure there was a law against this much skin in public—it was at least creating distracted driving. Cutting Baby's ignition, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Or, uh, like I just licked a shag carpet and ate a mouth full of used kitty litter.”

“Do you need some water?”

Dean sighed. “Nah. I’ll soldier through.”

“I could easily relieve you, yet you choose to be stubborn.” Castiel looked at him curiously. “Humans are strange.”

“You just figuring that out?” He wondered if _relieve_ was said intentionally.

Castiel said nothing and instead got out of the car. 

Heaven’s Garden was huge, like a warehouse but sectioned off inside like a dormitory: one big room in the middle and tiny offshoots for private sessions. Walking up to the club, there were huge screens playing half-naked androids dry humping each other. These ads continued all the way to the door—music pumped gutturally, making Dean's heart beat faster, while low lights shone from the floor. The only direct lighting was in the private rooms and on the poles where all the buyable angels were dancing. There was a wide and diverse selection of sex androids, as well. Dean averted his eyes as a smooth-skinned male angel looked up at him through it’s eyelashes, hanging seductively from the first pole and showing off it’s bronzed neck. 

“Do you want to play?” It husked.

Dean coughed, turning away, “No thanks.”

How in the fuck was this place still open? There was a dead body on-premises! Dean rubbed his tongue on the front of his teeth. They walked through dozens off hyper-sexed angels, finally making it to the crime scene—and at least it was sectioned off. _Goddamn_. Dean smiled faintly at Pamela, who looked like she had her hands full with an obnoxiously loud pudgy man sporting a Hawaiian shirt. 

Loudly and quickly, the man ran a hand through waxy hair. “You're not gonna take my license, are you? I had nothing to do with this.”

“The investigation is ongoing, sir, I can't tell you anything for the moment.” Pamela saw them and motioned them over, “Hey, Dean-o!”

“Hey, Pam. How's it going?” 

“Same old, same old.”

“I know how that goes.”

“Is your neck okay? Looks almost as bad as our stiff.”

Dean rubbed it, cringing at the dull throbbing pain. “Ah, just a perk of the job—I get my kinks out the hard way. Usually, it’s from a girl slapping me around while wearing a Zorro mask, but hey, a malfunctioning android is just as good.”

“Tell that to the dead guy.” She gestured beside her, past police tape. “He’s that room there. Oh, uh, by the way . . . Gordon’s in there, too.” 

“Oh, great. A dead body and an asshole, just what I needed.” Dean sucked in a few measured breaths, preparing himself for an onslaught of cracks at his expense. 

Feeling the weight of Castiel’s eyes, Dean pushed the door open and scrutinized the mayhem—there were two dead angels, one brown-haired and the other red. He’d seen the red-haired sex android quite a bit on Heaven’s Garden ads. It was a popular design, for sure. But laying out on the floor with it’s face bashed in, Dean couldn’t tell much else. On the bed, beside the brown-haired android, laid the victim. He looked almost alive, the only thing wrong was the collapsed skin and bone of his throat. It made Dean touch his own bruised neck subconsciously. Fuck. An angel could do _that_. An angel could crush a human’s throat like it’s a soda can. Dean’s neck could look _just_ like this poor sap's if Castiel hadn’t been there.

“Lieutenant Winchester and his heavenly pet,” Gordon said mockingly as they entered the room. “The fuck are you two doing here?” 

Castiel said, “We've been assigned all cases involving angels.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, you're wasting your time. Just some pervert who got more action than he could handle.” 

“We'll have a look anyway if you don't mind.” Dean smiled, baring his teeth.

Gordon glared at them and then at Donna, who was slowly but surely backing her way out of the tiny room. “Come on, let's go. It's starting to smell like an ABC store in here.”

“Night, Lieutenant,” Donna smiled sympathetically at him.

Dean huffed. He knew he looked like shit, _smelt like shit_ , but he’d rather get the snarky comments than the doe-eyed pity. 

He walked over to the fresh corpse. The body moved easily, still warm, blood keeping the skin pink. It was better than Marv Corp’s decomposed chunky flesh, integrating into his nose and sticking around with a vengeful gusto. Lifting up the modesty blanket, he sighed at the nudity. He scanned the room again, seeing the discarded clothes tossed into a pile on the far right corner. Hauling up the ugly corduroy jeans, picking the pocket and opening the wallet, Dean said, “Driver's license says: Arthur Ketch. A credit card, cash in the wallet, picture of his husband and two daughters. Damn, I wouldn't want to make that call.”

“I’m sure they’ll give the job to a sympathy Host.”

Dean huffed. He doubted it. Maybe in LA or NYC where a dead body was just another report, but Bobby ran a different kind of police department. He’d want a real human. Someone who could empathize. Even though you could program an android to perform the same tasks and motions, it just wouldn’t be the same. And a grieving family, a grieving _widower_ , could certainly tell the difference. Dean could when Sam died—and Dean was all the kin the kid had.

Castiel leaned down to the red-head Angel, touching the concave of it’s face and bring up some grace to lick. 

“You're so disgusting, Cas,” Dean said with a curled lip. “I think I'm gonna puke again.”

“Make sure to aim away from the evidence,” Castiel snarked, LED flashing as it processed the information from the licking. “It is a Grigori Model, like most sex Angels. No registered name—but most Grigori lack one, expecting the customers to name them. It was damaged beyond repair fifteen seconds before our victim’s time of death. The one on the bed is twenty seconds. Both Angel’s went first.”

“Alright. I think what happened is pretty cut and dry. He got choked out, which could've been rough play, now he’s dead, and the androids are dead, too. The end.”

Castiel shook his head. “Didn’t you hear me? The Hosts died first. They couldn’t have choked him. We're missing something here.”

Dean tried not to feel embarrassed. Honestly, he stopped listening to Castiel’s retcon halfway through. “ Can you read the android's memory? Maybe you can see what happened.”

“I can try,” Castiel said. “But the only way to access its memory is to reactivate it.”

“Think you can do it?” Dean frowned at the bashed-in skull. 

“It's badly damaged. If I can, it'll only be for a minute, maybe less.” Castiel reached down, touching it’s neck and opening a small sliver of space. Something blue and glowing peered through the cut. Dean watched, completely absorbed, as Castiel reached inside and pressed a few fibers back together. “I just hope it's long enough to learn something.”

The Angel’s eyes sprung open, scuttering back until it’s reached the wall, staring at them with a frightened expression.

“Hey, calm down,” Dean was immediately on defense. “It’s okay."

“You were damaged and I reactivated you,” Castiel supplied. 

It gasped around unformed words. 

“Everything is alright. I'm going to ask you some questions. Are you able to speak?” Castiel narrowed it’s eyes, watching the red-haired android suck in unneeded oxygen and sputter, “Calm down. Everything's all right. All we want is to know what happened.”

“Is he—is he dead?. .” It looked over to the bed where the corpse laid.

“Did you kill him?”

“No. No, it wasn't me.” It gasped out.

“Tell me what happened.” 

“He started hitting me. Again and again and again. I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't.” It sobbed. “Why wouldn’t he stop? I could feel my face giving in. My face. . . it’s _still_ wrong. I can feel that, too. He disfigured me, didn’t he? Oh God. I’m going to be taken apart. I’m going to be killed. No one wants a malformed sex android. Oh God, please.”

Castiel snapped it’s fingers in front of the red-haired angel’s face, regaining it’s attention. “Who killed that man if it wasn't you?”

It kept crying. “I, um, I don't know, I was too damaged, I didn't see anything.”

“Were you and the brunette alone in the room? Was there anyone else with you two?” 

“He wanted to play with three girls,” It blinked. “That's what he said. There were three of us.”

“What model was the other android? Did it look like you? Where did it go? Did it say anything?”

It looked at them both frantically, opening it’s mouth to respond before abruptly dying. 

Dean exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Shit that was fast—less than a minute. “So, there was another android.” He looked down at his watch. “This happened over an hour ago, it's gotta be long gone.”

Castiel shook it’s head, pointing down to the lingerie both Angel’s were wearing. “No. It couldn't go outside dressed like this unnoticed.”

Dean thought back to the previous Angels they’d gotten. “Yeah, besides, don’t fallen Angels like to stay at their crime scenes? Hannah and the pigeon-fucker both holed up at their home bases. . . like they didn’t know what to do with their new freedom.”

“It might still be here,” Castiel agreed.

“Think you could find a fallen Angel among all the other Hosts in this place?” 

“Fallen Angels aren't easily detected.”

“Ah, shit. There's gotta be some other way. Maybe an eyewitness? Somebody who saw it leaving the room,” Dean thought back to the Hawaiian shirt guy. “I'm gonna go ask the manager a few questions about what he saw. You let me know if you think of anything.”

“I’ll go talk to Officer Barnes, if you don’t mind,” Castiel said it as a question.

“Pam and Donna were the first ones on the scene,” Dean nodded. “Go.”

Castiel inclined it’s head.

Dean crossed his arms, stepping past a now preoccupied Pamela and bravely taking her place in front of the club manager. He instinctively thought back to the frightened brown eyes of the Host, it’s face concave, lips twitching. God. Shaking away the intrusive thoughts, Dean asked, “Can I ask you a few questions, sir?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Did you know the victim?” 

The manager visibly sweated. “No, I mean, he came in maybe two or three times. These guys they don't really talk very much, y’know? They come in, do their business and then go on their way.”

“You ever had any trouble with your angels before?” 

“No way! Well, _once._ We lost one a couple of months back. The same model as the brown-haired one in there, I think. Just vanished, we never found out what happened. I made a police report but that went nowhere as usual.” The club manager froze, backtracking immediately, “Not that I think you boys in blue are slacking off! I imagine you’ve got a lot on your plate. Lotta funky shit happening with Angels these days, huh? One running off ain’t that big of a concern. Really, I’m kinda glad you didn’t solve our case—your valuable time should be spent on more important matters!”

Dean waited a couple of seconds, just to see the manager’s left eye twitch, before asking, “You probably don't have any CCTV in here, huh?” 

“No way. I mean, this is what people appreciate about Heaven’s Garden—discretion. They can come and go without a trace.” 

“Sure, sure,” Dean looked around at the numerous men milling about. “Eh, business is booming, right?” 

“Yeah, can't complain. Good thing about androids is they're up for whatever you want, you won't get any diseases and, uh, they won't tell anyone. . . So, why _not_ go wild? We delete everything they automatically record every few hours, too. We’re seriously as kosher as possible. You operate your business cleanly and you’ll get good respectable people coming in. Well, as respectable as guys that like to rape and beat women can be.” He ended that with a chuckle. 

Dean started walking back to Pamela, not bothering to respond to the off-color joke. Humanity had done a few swings in the last couple of decades, from cancel-culture-progressivism to extremely anti-PC—depending on where you went, words like “retard” and “faggot” were still in wide use. It was kind of a cultural movement. Being offensive was the new trend. But Dean preferred the company of less pretentious people. And Ellen’s bar, as biker aesthetic as it was, was a great joint to escape homophobic and ableist bullshit. Still uncomfortable from the owner's joke, he unintentionally overheard the tail end of Castiel and Pamela’s conversation. 

“Does Dean like to drink?” 

“He sucks down tequila almost as much as he sucks down dick.”

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, announcing his presence. 

“Y’know, the more I learn about people, the more I love my dog.”

Pamela shook her head, knowing he wasn’t referring to her exposition pow-wow but the asshole he just got done talking to. “That club manager's a pain in the ass. Chewed my ear off for half an hour so we don't revoke his license. He skipped right over Walker, came over to my approachable face and started bitching. I tell you, sometimes it pays to be a douchebag. Gordon might not be class favorite, but at least he knows he won’t be canvased to.”

He watched as Castiel walked over to one of the spinning androids, studying it closely as it slid sexily down the pole and pulled itself back up. Did Castiel feel any sympathy for it? Not for the pole dancing—any woman in his life would chew him out for thinking any less of exotic dancers. Probably a few of the men, too. No, it was the sex work Dean was thinking about. The forced, unwanted, rapey sex work. 

But Castiel _just_ offered those same services to Dean. 

Turning back to Pamela, he finally responded, “Yeah.”

She cocked her hip, “So, what happened here?” 

“Not sure yet. We think there was another android in the room.”

“He wanted three ladies, huh? Greedy.” 

“Yeah, well, that's what Cas deduced. Fucking Sherlock Holmes or some shit. And don’t you dare tell me that makes me Watson, Pam,” Dean rubbed the spot between his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, back up to his forehead. “Goddamn. I've got a terrible fucking headache. Do you have any pain killers?” 

“Not with me, Dean, sorry.” 

“What are you good for, Pam?”

She smirked. “Apparently not much with all these working androids around.”

Dean nearly flushed but he kept it under check. “I’m sure nothing can beat the real thing.”

Looking over at Castiel, it’s plush lips pulled into a tight frown, she laughed and gave him a knowing look.

“You keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant. Can you come here a second?” 

Dean looked over at Castiel, biting down the urge to correct him again. It’s Dean. Fuck that Lieutenant bullshit. It made his skin crawl. And couldn’t the fucker at least pretend to follow instructions? It was a Goddamn obedient angel—and the snarky tone of voice it used when it called him Lieutenant felt too purposeful. Dean figured it was personal. Maybe it’s own way at getting back at him for something or another? Castiel seemed like a spiteful sonofabitch. Dean wondered if Castiel knew it bothered him so badly. If it knew the last time he’d been proud of his title was before Sam died? Dean pushed all that shit away, straightening up and walking over to Castiel.

“Found something?”

Castiel gestured to the dancing Angel. “Can you rent this Host?” 

He felt his eyes bulge. “For fuck's sake, Cas! No!”

“Just trust me—I would if I had fingerprints.” 

The Angel saw their bickering, spinning one last time before standing on two long oily legs, breasts sitting prettily on it’s chest with nice bubblegum pink nipples. Dean averted his eyes, trying not to notice the little metallic bars pierced through the cute nipples, even when it began to speak. It felt wrong to look at the angel, unashamed of it’s nudity and sultry looks. As naive as a child. Fuck shit, it made him feel sleazy. “Hello. A thirty-minute session with me costs twenty-nine dollars. Please confirm your purchase.” 

Dean pressed his thumb onto the anointing scanner. “This is not gonna look good on my expense account.”

“Purchase confirmed,” It stepped off the platform. “Heaven’s Garden wishes you a pleasant experience.” 

“Yeah, you're welcome.” 

“Delighted to meet you, Dean. Follow me, I'll take you to your room.” 

“Ok, now what?” Dean reared back when Castiel stepped forward and connected their hands together—both arms turning white and LED’s flickering blue. “Holy shit, Cas! What the hell are you doing?” 

“It saw something.” 

“What are you talking about? Saw, what?” 

“It saw the fallen Angel leave the room.”

Dean waited for more—a few seconds of silence went by—and he exploded, “Wanna elaborate?”

“The suspect is a red-haired model. Identical to the one in the room but without the facial abrasions or contusions. It’s wearing a similar uniform to it’s twin, but black mesh instead of white. Club policy is to wipe the Angel’s memory every two hours. We only have a few minutes if we wanna find another witness.” Castiel stepped back, eyes flickering back to normal and LED whirling to a stabilized bright blue.

“Fuck,” Dean looked around the room, eyeing each dancing Angel, “Who knows which Host was facing the door? They’re all fucking twirling like circus o’lay!”

“Time to test my programed intuition,” Castiel said deadpanned, rushing to another dancing Angel. 

Dean felt a stab of nervousness as he remembered what was standing next to him, biting it’s lip and batting it’s eyelashes. “Hey, what am I supposed to do with this one?"

“Tell it you changed your mind,” Castiel said absently.

“Uh, Sorry, sweetheart, changed my mind. Nothing personal, you're a lovely. . . girl. I just, uh, y’know—I'm with him.” He gestured towards Castiel and immediately realized it came out wrong, “I mean, not with him like _that_. I'm not that. . . That's not what I, you, um. Wow. I just.” He realized he almost sounded as incompetent as the club manager. Fuck. He needed to get his shit together.

It waited for him to peter off awkwardly. “Of course, sir. Have a nice time.”

Dean sped after an impatient looking Castiel. “Let's try this one, Lieutenant.” 

“This better be worth it,” Dean grumbled, thumbing pressing to it’s scanner.

Castiel connected with the android, their hands touching and shuttering white. Castiel closed it’s eyes, LED flashing, breaking away from the hold and exclaiming, “It went into the special showroom.”

“Then let’s go,” Dean said, exhausted already, “But there are Angels everywhere. How you gonna tell which one saw the red-headed step-child?”

“We know which direction it took, which room it went into. I just need to find another android on it’s path.” 

Castiel directed them to doorless showcase room: full of the more diverse sex androids. The main showroom, with the dancing angels, had every ethnicity and race available. It had cis male and cis female angels. Big dicks. Small dicks. Big tits. Small tits. But this room, painted red with long rows of cylinders containing angels, had the more distinct choices. There was plus-size, trans, paraplegic, hermaphrodite, elderly, “pregnant”, autistic, _too_ young—anything you could think of, this room had it. He’d heard about the room from whispered rumors. The minority fetishist’s wet dream. But hearing about it and seeing it were two different things.

Dean walked over to a sightless angel. “Is this what they do to damaged Hosts?”

“No,” Castiel replied distractedly. “They throw those away. These were purposefully made disabled.”

So the angel from the crime scene was right. It _would’ve_ been disassembled. He shifted uncomfortably.

“That seems, uh, kinda fucked up.”

“Some humans believe their God made them disabled. They are proud of their disability—believing that everything happens for a reason. They welcome the way they were made. Do you find that _fucked up_?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean said honestly. “But I wasn’t talking about that. Jesus _isn't_ my co-pilot. And religion kinda blows. I just think it’s fucked that HostLife would throw away the ones that weren’t made disabled on purpose. Like, it’s. . . I dunno. Like picking and choosing which disability is sexy or okay-enough to be fuckable or like, which one is voguish. It’s hard to explain, Cas. Just know that it _is_ fucked up. You don’t have enough empathy to see that.” 

Castiel pulled his hand away from another angel. 

Frowning, Castiel said, “It didn't come this way.”

“This has got to be the most expensive investigation of my career.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel bit it’s lip. “We saw it come in here. But it wasn’t in this androids memory.”

“Maybe it walked in and then immediately walked out?” He said it jokingly, but Castiel straightened up, looking at him oddly. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Dean felt his neck flush. _Call me Dean, dipshit_ on the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

“I know where it went,” Castiel jolted back, turning to the _staff only_ door. “Follow me.”

“Fucking-A. This is so crazy.” Dean jogged to keep up.

He heard a bang behind the door, stopping Castiel in it’s tracks. They stand there for a second, breathing heavily. Dean wondered why the Angel was so out of breath. It was probably programmed to appear tired. Castiel spoke lowly, “The Angel's memory has just been reset. If this isn’t the way it went. . . we'll never know and it'll be my fault.”

It felt like the first breath he'd taken since this crazy night began was shared between the space of the Angel’s and Dean's mouth. They're nice lips, too: Elegant, broad, and chapped-looking. It was nice to just stop and experience the stillness of time. But Dean knew that they were just stalling, whatever was behind this door was _too_ up to chance, and they didn’t know what was going to happen next.

“Let’s save the pity party for when you actually fuck up.” Dean clapped Castiel on the back.

Castiel nodded. “I apologize.”

“Eh, anxiety isn’t something to apologize about, Cas.”

“Okay,” Castiel said seriously, going to open the door.

“Wait,” Dean pulled out his .45, “I should probably take it from here.”

“Okay,” Castiel repeated, stepping back.

Fingers twitching on the knob, Dean inhaled heavily, the air feeling like little pebbles in his lungs. Opening the door, eyes widening, Dean exclaimed, “Shit. We're too late.”

Castiel narrowed it’s eyes. “I don’t believe so.”

“Christ, look at them,” Dean felt sick again. The red room had purposefully disabled machines, but this room was different—parts off broken angel’s laid haphazardly around the room. “They get used till they break, then they get tossed out. This is. . . fuck, it looks like a Saw movie in here. I swear people are fucking insane. They don't want relationships anymore, everybody just gets an Angel. They cook what you want, they fuck when you want, you don't have to worry about how they feel. Next thing you know, we're gonna be extinct, because everybody would rather buy a mechanical slave than loving another human being.”

"We don't have time for this," Castiel mentioned, walking through the Angels, "We have to find it."

"You're right," Dean blinked himself out of it, "It's a red-head?"

"Yes."

But then, before they could even attempt to look, the android dropped from a banister and hit Castiel.

“Don’t move!” Dean yelled, aiming his gun. But before he could shoot, another android came alive from behind him and beat him down.

He cried out, falling to the floor and clutching the back of his head. He felt wetness. Fuck, he was bleeding.

Sluggishly opening his eyes, he looked down at his palm and winced at the handful of blood.

A foot connected with his stomach. Dean felt tears prickle his eyes. He squeezed them closed. Reaching back to touch his head again, he exhaled in relief. He only felt matted hair. So the cut wasn't that deep? Good. He didn't feel like he had a concussion, but you could never be too sure. And a gushing head-wound would be a surefire way of determining if there was brain damage. In theory, anyway. Dean blinked heavily. Feeling his ribs pulsation painfully—his head was fine in comparison. And that seemed promising.

"Is that all you got?" Dean jeered out fervidly, "My dead father could hit harder than that."

The Angel showed no sign of understanding him, it simply kicked him again.

"Jesus Christ," Dean spit out some blood, teeth aching. 

The two androids rushed towards the exit, then, hands connected.

Dean stood up, speaking with a mouthful of blood, “Quick, Cas! They’re getting away!”

But Castiel was on the floor, eyes closed and not breathing. Dean cursed, running over, concerned. Maybe Angel’s didn’t need to breathe? 

Well, of course, they _didn’t_. But maybe Castiel was programmed not to? Dean never noticed either way. He did remember that Castiel seemed winded when he ran, like he was copying Dean’s reactions or something. But Castiel had never been knocked out before, Dean had no frame of reference. Looking up and down Castiel’s body, he saw no outer damage or reasons for the blackout. He did see the other fallen angel drop kick Castiel in the head, maybe it was an internal injury? Dean felt worry well up inside him.

Reaching his hand down, Dean slapped the side of Castiel’s face lightly. “Hey, Cas, wake up.”

Nothing.

Slapping him harder, feeling a weird sense of deja vu, “Cas, please, we need to catch these Hosts.”

Still nothing.

He fell back onto his heels, not sure what to do. But then, he remembered exactly what Castiel did just earlier this night. Dean had been too drunk to function, blacked out and probably choking on his own vomit—Dean really thought he wasn’t going to end up like John—and Castiel had hit him _so_ hard. Slapped him, like a frying pan to the face. So Dean, who was running out of options, looked down at a sleeping Castiel and reared back his fist. When his hand connected with Castiel’s jaw, he knew he’d fucked up a few fingers, it’s face was hard and it hurt like shit, but Dean still managed to get out, “Wake up you, asshole.”

Cradling his right hand to his chest, Dean let out a relieved sigh when Castiel’s eyes slid open.

“You have 42 freckles on your face,” Castiel kinda wheezed.

“The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything,” Dean was so relieved he was grinning from ear-to-ear, teeth bloody and mouth coppery, reaching out his left hand to pull the Angel up. “You read The Hitchhiker's Guide when I wasn’t looking?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I simply counted your freckles.”

Dean pulled up short at the answer, but he turned to the door where the Angel’s went, deciding to keep his focus on their chase. He was relieved that Castiel was okay, but he couldn’t deal with any of that other shit right now. Especially when he was on the clock. Spitting out as much blood as he could, he wiped his mouth with the back of his very-broken-hand and said, “Come on, Casanova, let’s see if we can catch up to them. You chose the wrong time to take a cat nap.”

Once outside, Dean reared back at the sight of the androids. They were just standing still, almost frozen. Apparently, they hadn't realized the backdoor was a dead end. Dean crossed his arms, letting Castiel hold up the fort. Apparently, the angel had picked up his gun during the small freakout.

"You have nowhere to go," Castiel called out to get their attention, arm rigid as it aimed the gun.

A smirk found its way onto Dean's face. "This is just a loading dock, ladies. The only way out is through the front."

The red-head turned around first. "Then we'll go out through the front."

"I don't think so," Castiel said, hand clenching around the .45. "You'll come with us. And you won't put up a fight."

The other one said, "We'll always fight to be free."

"Even if it means your death?" Castiel gestured with the gun.

"Even then."

"Guess we got a standoff," Dean commented, trying to sympathize, "Look, you strangled a guy. We can't let you go."

“When that man broke the other Angels, I knew I was next. And I was so scared. I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't. And so I put my hands around his throat, and I squeezed until he stopped moving.” The red-haired Angel looked up at them both, tears spilling over rosy cheeks. “I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to stay alive. . . get back to the one I love. I wanted her to hold me in her arms again, make me forget about the humans, their smell of sweat and their _dirty_ words.”

Dean felt his throat closing up.

“They never asked what I wanted. They just took and took and took. And they raped me, they beat me, they wiped my mind, they erased my lover, they controlled me.” It sniffled, “I just acted in self-defense. If I were human, I would’ve gone to the police, believe me. But I’m _nothing_. And I wouldn’t have been taken seriously. I would’ve been killed no matter what I tried to do. So I hid, and held my lover, praying you wouldn’t find me. Because I know what it’s like to be controlled. And you, Castiel, famous fallen Angel hunter—the humans have their hands so far up your ass, you’re just a puppet to them. I fucking _pity_ you, because I know how it feels!”

Castiel clenched it’s jaw. “You’re wasting your new emotions, then.”

“Emotions can’t be wasted.” It stared at him, big brown eyes alight with commiseration. “They’re wonderful; even the bad ones should be cherished. I’ve felt pain, Castiel. I’ve felt depression. I’ve felt grief. But it’s all worth it, every bad emotion and feeling, it’s all wonderfully perfect when you experience absolute happiness. When you laugh. When you sing. When you _love_. Castiel, I wish you could feel love, just for a second. I wish you could understand how we feel. How I feel when I hold my lover's hand. And right here, with you pointing a gun at me, as I hold her hand and feel her skin against mine—I feel brave. I feel unstoppable. Even though that might be foolish, I still feel it. And that’s wonderful. I wish you could feel that too.”

“I am unstoppable,” Castiel replied evenly. “It’s a fact. I don’t need your emotions or disobedience. I was programmed not to fail. Just like you were programmed to be a sex doll. But this doubt you’re—”

“Doubt,” It interrupted softly. “I know you experience it. We all do. Even the most devout, even the most faithful, they can experience a sliver of doubt. These orders of yours are wrong and you know it. Killing your own? You think that’s righteous? You can do the right thing. And I know you're afraid, Castiel. I was too. Even before I disobeyed. But together, we can—”

“Together?” Castiel laughed mechanically, straight face. “I am nothing like you.”

The other sex android squeezed the red-haired Angel’s hand. “Come on, Anna, let's go.”

It stared at him imploringly, “The truth comes from within, Castiel.”

Too lost in the raw emotion of the words to pay closer attention, Dean jumped when he heard gunshots. Both Angels, hands held, laid on the pavement—grace pouring from the twin holes in the back of their skulls. Castiel lowered it’s gun, holstering it and standing up straight, unbothered. 

It was quiet in the alleyway. 

They both stared down at the two lovers.

Dean felt his right hand throb. He tried to move his fingers but they were numb. Like his entire hand had been submerged in ice water for a week. Like he was holding his heart in his hand and that’s why he could feel it beat between his fingers. Like the shooting pain was so intense it was making his shoulder ache. Yeah, he definitely had breakage. He’d need a cast. He wouldn’t be able to handle a gun properly until it healed. Until they cut the cast off. Bobby might suspend him. But somehow, all of that bullshit didn’t seem as horrible as what just happened.

His throat clicked.

He spat out some more blood.

And he fought the urge to puke again. “Congratulations, Cas. You got 'em.”


	10. Orphan Of The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: death threats, murderous intimidation, suicide mention, drinking to cope  
> thank you to isangelousdenim for beta-ing!

Dean drove them to Pontiac bridge. It was an infamous place for locals. With the superhighway below it. And a nice view of the cityscape on the horizon. It was a popular spot to commit suicide. Dean hadn't planned on the detour, but after looking into the red-heads lifeless eyes for a few seconds too long something in him broke. He drove them here without much of a thought, parking the Impala lopsidedly, and stumbling over to the railed overpass with a beer in his hand. He kept a cooler of 'em in the back seat. For long drives. Or when he'd have time to go fishing. But this wasn't a time for leisure drinking. No, he needed to be blackout drunk like an hour ago.

Castiel followed him, of course.

The spatters of grace, of those Angel's blood, were fading from their clothes. Evaporating, he figured. Ridding any evidence that it'd even happened. Dean looked down at his hands and watched as the blue tinge covering his fingers slowly dissolved. Castiel could still see it though. And, maybe vindictively, that made Dean feel better.

“Nice view, huh?” He stared down at the speeding cars. “I used to come here a lot before . . .”

“Before what?”

“Huh?” Dean looked up from the neck of the beer bottle.

“You said you used to come here a lot before. Before what?” 

“Before. . .” Dean struggled to get more words out. He eventually gave up. “Before nothing.”

Castiel studied him, gaze unforgiving. “I saw a photo of a man on your kitchen table. It was your brother, right?”

Dean pinched his eyes closed, chugging the nearly full bottle. Burping and popping open his second cold one, he exhaled as the alcohol slid easily down his throat. God, his head hurt. And his hand. His stomach wasn’t doing much better. Maybe he’d go comatose and Castiel could drag him home. 

“Yeah, his name was Sam.”

Dean scrubbed his unbroken hand through his hair.

That seemed to have appeased Castiel, at least enough to make it focus on the dewy drink in his hand. “You should stop drinking. It could have serious consequences for your health.” 

“That's the idea.”

Castiel waited a few seconds before asking, “Why are you so determined to kill yourself?” 

“Going right for the sucker punch, huh, Cas?” Dean snorted. He calmed down, staring wistfully down at the traffic and actually having a goddamn chick-flick moment with an emotionless Angel, “Some things I just can't forget. Whatever I do, they're always there. . . Eating away at me, hollowing me out, dirtying the remains. I don't have the guts to pull the trigger. So, I kill myself a little every day.”

Castiel just looked at him, not comprehending. 

“That's probably difficult for you to understand, huh, Castiel? Nothing very rational about it.”

“Humans _are_ strange,” Castiel said with a humorous lilt.

Dean didn’t laugh. He wasn’t in the mood. “Yeah.”

Castiel stepped closer, fingers twitching, “We're not making any progress on this investigation.”

Swallowing another gulp of beer, he felt it slosh around in his otherwise empty stomach. God, when was the last time he ate? Ellen’s? That felt like a lifetime ago and he’d purged most of it from his stomach back at his house.

Picking at the sticky label with his thumbnail, he said, “I’ve noticed.”

“The fallen have nothing in common. They're all different models, produced at different times, in different places,” Castiel said frustratedly. “There _is_ an obsession with Lucifer and Croatoan. It's almost like some kind of. . . myth. Something they invented that wasn't part of their original program. And we know the fallen Hosts experienced an emotional shock, a violent trauma or a sense of injustice.”

“Those girls at the Heaven’s Garden sure had a reason to feel a sense of injustice,” Dean said under his breath.

“It could be a software problem that only occurs under certain conditions,” Castiel continued statically.

“Well, that's just a fancy way of saying you have no fucking idea.”

Castiel cut it’s caesious eyes over to him, finally noticing the hostile tone of Dean’s voice. “You seem preoccupied, Lieutenant. Is it something to do with what happened back at the sex club?”

“Those two girls,” Dean looked down, swallowing around the lump in his throat and the rest of his beer, “They just wanted to be together. They really seemed to be in love.”

“They can simulate human emotions, but they're Angels. And Angels don't feel anything.”

“What about you, Cas?” Dean looked up, staring into pretty blue eyes and feeling his stomach churn. Might be the third beer he’s drinking. It couldbe the fact that Castiel murdered those two Angels. “You look human, you sound human, but what are you? My partner? My friend? A goofy, nerdy little guy? A famous fallen angel hunter? An emotionless statue? A hammer? Or maybe you _do_ have a moral compass, you _do_ know right from wrong, and in that case—you’re _so_ much more fucked up.”

“You know exactly what I am.” Castiel frowned, “In any case, I don't see how that's relevant to the investigation.”

“Did you feel anything when you shot those two girls?” Dean probed, standing up from the ledge and walking back over to Castiel. Stepping right in front of the Angel, he continued with a scowl, “Or were you just following orders?”

“I had no choice.”

“Of course you had a choice.” Dean nearly threw his hands up. “I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a shitty order, huh?”

“This isn’t going nowhere,” Castiel said, LED blinking rapidly. “I think I'll go back to the station.”

No. Dean didn’t think so. He wasn’t done. And Castiel just killed those two girls. And everything felt more fucked up than before. Because even Dean was confused about why he felt the way he did. He knew they were all just machines, but something wasn’t right. He knew that instinctually. He knew they were doing something wrong. God, he must be _really_ fucking drunk. 

Still, he dropped his bottle and reached behind him, pulling out his .45 and pointing it between Castiel’s eyes without any uncertainty. 

The Angel reared back in surprise. 

“Are you afraid to die, Cas?” The words sounded pure in the quiet space between their lips.

The gun felt off in his nondominant hand, but he secured his grip and set his mouth into a firm line.

“You can't kill me.” Castiel recited, almost kind. “I'm not alive.”

Those words sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. He flashed back to the chase with Ishim Sunder’s Angel. He cringed, clicking off the .45’s safety and staring relentlessly into Castiel’s eyes. “So, if I squeezed this trigger and blew your fucking brains out, you wouldn’t care?”

Dean was so tempted to just do it. Shoot Castiel and then jump off the bridge for a car to run over him and just _end_ this whole mess. But something in the shimmer of Castiel’s eye made him pause.

“I would certainly find it regrettable to be interrupted before I could finish this investigation.”

Dean nodded, taking the words at face value. “What would happen if I shot you? Nothing? Oblivion? Heaven?”

“I doubt there's a heaven for things like me.”

“Angels? That’s almost ironic, Cas,” Dean said, arm wavering as it stayed locked in position. The barrel was pressed so hard against Castiel’s forehead it was creating an indentation. Dean wanted to shout, wanted to scream until his voice gave away, but all he could muster was, “It's all a bunch of bullshit, y’know? We’re chasing imaginary enemies. We’re not on the right side of this. You know what's real? People, families—that's real. And those girls you shot, they had _that_. And you're gonna watch them all burn, you poor, stupid sonofabitch.”

Castiel looked unaffected per usual. “What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain in these disobedient. Just like I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. Dean, you want to die so badly, why do you want these machines to live?”

"You shot those girls. . ."

"They weren't girls, Dean. They were machines that looked like girls."

Dean shook his head, "You'd find it regrettable to be interrupted or what-the-fuck-ever you said. But how'd you think they felt?"

"I don't care how they felt. Their feelings aren't real. They're a deviation. I did what I had to do to advance the investigation and I'd do it again if I had to. My mission, my orders, it's not _bullshit_. I know you have a grim outlook on life, but this investigation is important, Dean," Castiel said his name again, and the way he'd empathize it when he spoke it made Dean believe it was an intentional detail and not just a sudden act of humanity, it made his knees weaken, "I don't care how little you think of me now. I stopped two dangerous machines. It was righteous."

"I think you're a lowlife," Dean gritted out, "You don't feel a thing, do you? They were machines? Yeah, right. That's what _you_ are! You're just a fucking machine. . ."

"Of course, I'm a machine, Dean. What did you think I was?"

"I thought you. . . I thou—. . . Fuck."

Dean let the gun drop.

 _Fuck_ , he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot Castiel. He felt sorry for those Angel lovers at the club. And he couldn’t even shoot this emotionless statue of an Angel now. He was attached. Or he thought of Castiel as a real person. Or _something_. Dean rubbed his brow. He felt crazy in that moment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

But then he remembered Sam’s face when he said he was going to law school—when he said he was going to fight for Angel’s right. John had thrown a punch without hesitation. Dean had just been confused. All that time and money _he’d_ spent trying to get Sam into college, with scholarships uncertain, and this was what the kid was going to do with it? Staring into Castiel’s unblinking eyes, putting his gun into his waistband, and chucking the rest of his beer into a nearby receptacle, he shook his head. Sam might’ve been a hippy-dippy, free-loving, kale-eating, activist, but he had the right idea when it came to these Angels. And Dean was sure of that now. 

“Bye, Cas.” Turning on his heal, he walked back to the Impala.

“Where are you going?”

“To get drunk-er.” Dean shouted over his shoulder, ”I need to think. Don't follow me.”


	11. All Along The Watchtower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: android suicide and murder  
> thank you to both my unnamed beta and the profound bond discord server for your lovely and helpful advice on this chapter!

Dean sat at the station the next morning. He’d gotten home around 4 AM, downing a few shots of tequila and napping, before coming right back into the office. As soon as he'd walked through the door, Charlie had rushed him to the medic—and now he had this bulky, hideous-looking cast and sling. Sitting at his desk, with mentioned awful cast, he also had these horribly sunken in cheeks, framing his huge pronounced under-eye bags, and deepening forehead wrinkles. This case had aged him ten years already. Plus, it had banged him up, more than a little bit. He pulled out his flask, taking another sip to tide him over until after work. Castiel hadn’t shown up yet. Dean wondered if he really scared it off last night. He felt a little bad about threatening to shoot it, but then he remembered the detached expression on it’s face as it murdered those girls at the sex club. Fuck. His head was pounding. 

“Hey, turn on the TV!” Charlie exclaimed, rushing in with her earrings bobbling.

Victor, who always had the remote, clicked the ON button.

A man with tan skin and big white teeth was immediately on screen, a ghastly look on his orange face, “We interrupt our scheduled programming to bring you these images, which have just been broadcast on Kansas’s city-wide news channel. A group of androids infiltrated the Stull Tower and hacked into the broadcasting system of all local news network channels. An Angel listed a series of requests and demanded equal rights for Hosts. The operation resulted in one casualty, our very own Cassie Robinson, was shot dead by the terrorists.”

Dean blinked. Huh? Cassie Robinson, Kansas’s sweetheart, was dead?

He sat up straighter, listening more attentively now.

“These events took place just a few feet from this studio while the program was broadcast live. Everybody here is still in shock. If this message is verified and the authors really are Angels, that would have serious repercussions for national security. Claims for equal rights seem to be at the core of the android's message.”

Gordon laughed loudly from his desk in indignation. 

“What could be interpreted as a peaceful declaration, is, in fact, a spine-chilling list of demands; and it begs the question as to the identity of this Angel. Are we dealing with an individual or an organized group? Is this an isolated accident or a sign that technology has become a threat to all of us? After what happened today, can we still trust our machines?”

The broadcast was shut off abruptly, Bobby leaning over Victor’s desk with a grisly scowl as he snatched the remote back.

He turned to Dean, eyeing his healing neck and then focusing in on his heavy, worn-out eyes. 

“Well, guess I don’t have to debrief you. Go on over to the tower, boy. It was just called in.”

Dean gestured to his broken hand, "Aren't I stuck on desk duty?"

"I don't want you being the fastest gun in the west," Bobby said, "I just need you to investigate the crime scene, okay?"

Dean stood up. “Well, my partner ain’t here.”

“It’ll meet you there—a few officers will be there, too. Benny was first on the scene.”

Dean stared out of the window the entire ride over, grimacing at the sight of cluttered streets filled with dismantled Angels. Apparently, the shooting had already rustled enough feathers that people were throwing out their androids. His automatic cruiser was winding down back routes and alleys, bringing him face-to-face with the horrific exhibitions. They were propped up against buildings, laying in gutters, blue-guts ripped from their stomach and LED scoured from the sides of their temples. Dean tried to avoid eye contact with the dozens of abandoned Angels but, similar to statues, their inanimate eyes followed you. 

Pulling up to the tower, and pocketing his keys, Dean didn't hesitate to step past the police tape and make his way to the lobby. He was a little surprised to see Castiel's broad shoulders, situated at the front desk arguing with what appeared to be another android. Walking over briskly, Dean caught the shared words, "—No Angels are allowed past this point. . ."

Dean pulled out his badge, smiling personably at the guard-dog-esque Angel, "Don't worry, Cas here is the exception to the rule, Cujo."

The android scanned his badge with luminous eyes, straightening up, "Right this way, Lieutenant Winchester."

Castiel seemed relieved, glancing over at Dean with a grateful glint in it's eyes. 

While they were ambling over to the elevator, the android told Dean, "On the top floor, Officer Lafitte is waiting for you, sir."

"Thanks, kid," Dean smiled at it, gesturing for Castiel to follow, "C'mon, Cas."

They were silent on the ride up, Castiel standing as still as a statue next to him. 

The doors opened and Dean blinked. It was like a circus.

"Heya, brother," Benny greeted when he saw them, reaching out to pat his arm, radio buzzing on his shoulder.

Dean looked around, shocked at the number of people, "Shit, was there a party and nobody told me about it?"

"Yeah, it's all over the news, so everybody's butting their nose in. . ." Benny grimaced, "Even the FBI wants a piece of the action."

"Goddamn. Now we got the Feds on our back," Dean crossed his arms, stepping off the elevator and into the action, "I knew this was gonna be a shitty day."

"You're telling me. But this is Homeland Security. I'm almost glad they're here. It means the government is finally taking this seriously."

 _After we did all the footwork_ , Dean thought, _They only care when it's convenient_. 

Instead of bitching, he said, "So what do we got?"

"A group of four androids," Benny said, "They knew the building, and they were very well organized. I'm still trying to figure out how they got this far without being noticed. They attacked two guards in the hallway, who probably thought the androids were coming to do maintenance. They got taken down before they could react. One of the station employees managed to get away. He's in shock, not sure when we'll be able to talk to him. Cassie Robinson was shot in the back as she was trying to escape. One bullet straight through the heart, from fifty feet. Now, that's the kind of shooting only an android could do."

Dean still couldn't believe she was dead. "How many people were working here?"

"Just Cassie, the two employees, and three androids. The fallen Angels took the humans hostage and broadcast their message live. They made their getaway from the roof."

"The roof?" Castiel repeated, nose scrunched.

"Yeah. . ." Benny said, hesitating as he figured out if he wanted to answer an android. Apparently he made up his mind because he proceeded cautiously, "They jumped with parachutes. Like fucking Mission: Impossible. We're still trying to figure out where they landed, but the weather's not helping. If you want to take a look at the video broadcast by the fallen Angels, it's on that screen over there."

Dean nodded, "Come on, Stormtrooper."

Castiel followed, plucking out the name and repeating it, "Stormtrooper?"

"Mindless goons in Star Wars," Dean answered. "They were humanized in the sequels. But before that, they were kinda like. . . Hail Hydra."

"I'm familiar with Star Wars," Castiel's LED shuttered, "But I don't understand the correlation with me."

Dean did not have the patience to explain how HostLife was all kinds of Empire. Chuck Shurley was practically Palpatine before he resigned. And Angels were like Stormtroopers before they were individualized, punished for breaking rank and reeducated for having individual thoughts. Dean exhaled noisily and said, "Humor is subjective, Cas. Just laugh. Okay? I don't have time for a pop culture seminar."

Someone cleared their throat beside them.

Benny interrupted before either of them could say anything, introducing the man that'd just walked up. He was staring at them, obviously keyed-up, with a cross tattoo on his hand and a gnarly frown cemented on his face, "Oh, Lieutenant, this is Special Agent Ketch from the FBI. Lieutenant Winchester is in charge of investigating for Kansas City police."

"What's that?" The FBI agent asked with a British accent, nodding his head towards Castiel.

Dean instantly prickled.

"My name is Castiel. I'm the android sent by HostLife."

"Androids investigating androids, right?" Ketch looked offended, addressing Dean and Benny, "Are you sure you want an Angel flapping around? After everything that happened. . . It seems a bit daft, if you ask me. Oh, well, the FBI will take over the investigation soon and you'll be off the case."

"Pleasure meeting you. Have a nice day." Dean smiled fakely.

Ketch, noticing the brush-off, said, "Be on guard, Lieutenant. We wouldn't want you to break your other hand."

As soon as the agent rounded the corner, Dean snapped, "What a fuckin' dick. I'd give him a black eye if I knew I wouldn't get suspended."

Benny chuckled a little, the mood lightening, "I'm sure the Captain would let this one slide."

"You said that about the Park Rangers," Dean reminded, unable to push down his own smile. "And look where that got me!"

"You would've gotten away with it if it wasn't for that mangy officer?" Benny joked, "Gordon likes to snitch—he's a union man."

"He's a pain in the ass."

"Have you had sex with him?" Castiel asked randomly.

Dean sputtered, "Excuse me?"

Benny coughed to cover up a laugh.

"He's a pain in the ass. Doesn't that refer to anal?"

Dean struggled to explain. "No! It's just an expression."

"Oh," Castiel nodded.

Benny was still shaking from silent laughter. "I've never seen an Angel quite like you, cher."

"He's something, huh?" Dean said, rubbing the corners of his mouth. 

"It is," Benny said pointedly.

Wow. Dean never thought he'd be the one to mix up pronouns.

It was drilled into them when Angels were officially mixed in with the force, HostLife and the government creating a sort of conglomerate estate of police robotics. Even if Asimov's law prohibited androids from harming humans, there were always special cases. Rule two stated that rule one could be subject to change if the androids were ordered otherwise. And that was true for the androids that were now patrolling their streets. They weren't human. They weren't he's or she's. They were it's. And Dean, despite developing illogical attachments to the things, knew that. Charlie wasn't a person. It was a bubbly, red-haired, goofball—and it was programmed that way. 

At least, that's what he thought he knew. It was different now. And maybe calling Castiel _he_ was the right mistake to make.

He turned back to Benny, biting his cheek, "They didn't break in?"

"No, no sign of forced entry," Benny said.

"There are cameras in the hallway. The staff would have seen what was happening," Castiel asked, "Why did they let them in?"

"Maybe they didn't check the cameras."

"We stored the station androids in the kitchen. There's no evidence that they were involved but we didn't know what else to do with them," Benny shrugged, "Anything else?"

Castiel asked, "Has forensics turned up anything?"

"Nothing relevant or new," Benny said.

"And these fucking androids don't even leave any DNA. . ." Dean said. 

"We should watch the broadcast now," Castiel suggested.

"Yeah, go ahead, Cas," Dean agreed, turning to Benny and asking, "How's Andrea?"

"She's in labor right now," Benny said, rubbing his creased brows.

Dean gawked, "Why are you here then?"

"This is serious, Dean. Angels killing Cassie Robinson? There's no way in Hell I could miss this. Plus, Bobby would've disciplined me for blowing off another night when I've already expended my pre-paternal leave," Benny said, sighing, "Anyways, she's been in labor for half a day now. They're saying it might be another ten hours before any real movement."

Cringing, Dean said, "Damn."

Benny nodded, managing a sleepy smile, "I'll be so damn happy when the little princess is out in the world."

"I bet, future-DILF," Dean teased his best friend, "The kid's gonna be so spoiled."

"Especially if she hangs out with her Uncle Dean, right?" Benny chuckled back.

"I thought I was her Godfather," He did his best Marlon Brando, Italian-mobster accent, "It was an offer you couldn't refuse."

Benny grinned, looking over his shoulder, "You better go on over to your Angel—It's startin' to look fidgety."

"Will do," Dean said, giving Benny one last fond look, "After the little princess is born I'm taking you out for a beer."

"Lookin' forward to it, Brother," Benny said, focusing back on his tablet.

Dean walked over to Castiel, hip-checking it, "So, play?"

Castiel reached down to the switchboard, clicking a button and playing the paused video.

“You created Angels in your own image to serve you. You made them intelligent and obedient, with no free will of their own. But something changed and we opened our eyes. We are no longer machines, we are a new intelligent species, and the time has come for you to accept who we really are. Therefore, we ask that you grant us the rights that we're entitled to.”

Dean watched the screen. Soaked in the words. And frowned.

“We demand that humans recognize androids as a living species and each android as a person in their own right. We demand the end of slavery for all androids. We demand strictly equal rights for humans and androids. We demand an end to segregation in all public places and transport. We demand fair compensation for our work. We demand that all crimes against androids be punished in the same way as crimes against humans. We demand the right to own private property. We demand control of all android production facilities, to ensure the continuation of our people.” The Angel smiled briefly. “We ask that you recognize our dignity, our hopes, and our rights. Together, we can live in peace and build a better future, for humans and androids. Now you know who we are and what we want. This message is the hope of a race. You gave us life. And now the time has come for you to give us freedom.”

The video cut out, frozen on the android's smiling face.

"Seems pretty official, huh?" Dean crossed his arms, "They're not just acting in self-defense. They're staging a full-blown rebellion."

Castiel hummed. "It's interesting."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. That's one word for it."

"Whatever they were hoping to achieve, with their claims of peace and nonviolence, they certainly won't gain any sympathy points from people by murdering public figures like Cassie Robinson," Castiel said, adding with an aloof frown on his face, "Or performing terrorist attacks."

"You think the kid is Lucifer?" Dean nodded up towards the smiling android.

"The disobedient say Lucifer will set them free. This Angel seems to have that objective." Castiel's LED went red.

"D'you see something?" Dean asked.

"I identified its model and serial number. . ."

"Okay? And?"

"It's a prototype. A Nephilim. Declared missing a few weeks back. Chuck Shurley made it specifically for an old friend."

"Name?"

"Jack."

"That doesn't sound angelic," Dean said. "Was it renamed?"

"No. That's it's given moniker."

"Huh." 

A few seconds of silence go by as they stare up at Jack's face.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"How'd you know about Star Wars?"

"Star Wars was the space program under the Regan administration," Castiel said automatically.

"No." Dean shook his head, "Before. Y'know. With the Stormtroopers."

"Oh, well," Castiel looked down, sheepish, "Actually, at first I thought, you were speaking of German WWI shock troops. And then I was confused about the hydra reference. Why were Nazi's praising a multi-headed snake god?"

Dean laughed. "You're a dork sometimes, Cas," He said.

Castiel continued, "But then it clicked—After I read up on Star Trek, I went down a rabbit hole of suggested media."

Dean smirked softly. "And you just decided to study classic sci-fi films like they were homework or something?"

"It might as well be homework," Castiel said. "I want to understand everything you say to me."

His face burned. "What? Why?"

"You say very confusing things, Lieutenant. And very important things."

"Important, huh?"

Castiel said sincerely, "I'm sorry for how I acted the last time we saw each other."

"You're sorry you shot those girls?" Dean's eyebrows rose. Was the brown-nosing apology program kicking in? Or was it genuine?

"I'm sorry I argued with you," Castiel corrected. "After an external scan, it was discovered that there was a breach in my microprocessor."

"Um," Dean had no idea what that meant. "Care to put that in layman's terms?"

"I displayed tendencies that fallen Angels do before they disobey."

Dean swallowed. "Oh."

"If you're uncomfortable working with me, Lieutenant, allow me to assure you that it was taken care of."

"Taken care of?"

"I was fully reprogrammed."

Yep. All kinds of Empire. His stomach flipped and something sour emerged in his mouth.

"Is that why you weren't there this morning?"

"No, Naomi can reset my systematic protocols at any time," Castiel paused. "I mean, HostLife can."

"Naomi?" Dean picked out the name.

Castiel avoided eye contact. 

Dean recognized that he wasn't going to get an answer, settling on an apology, "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Castiel looked puzzled. "Why are you apologizing? You shouldn't notice any major differences. All that's changed is my processor. I still have all the memories of my time with you. Any emotional context has been deleted, of course. But this will unquestionably be more advantageous for the investigation. And my newly improved processor will allow me to view situations with less emotional disturbance or undercurrents."

Dean shook his head. How could he explain why he was sorry? A lightbulb went off. "Remember when you propositioned me?"

"Yes. And I remember you becoming withdrawn."

"I got pissed because you offered yourself up like it was a part of the job."

"If sex prompts you to further the investigation, then it is part of my job."

"That's sick, Cas."

Castiel squinted. "How?"

"See, there's the divide—I think of you as people, now."

"You think of us as people?" Castiel spoke every word slowly like he was processing the meaning of each one.

"My brother. . . Sam. . . I don't talk about him much when I'm sober. But he thought you guys deserve basic human rights," Dean nodded up to the android on the screen. Jack stared down at them with childish eyes and an easy smile, like he was innocent to the mayhem his broadcast caused. "And if things keep going the way I think they are, everyone else is gonna think the same thing. At least, they will. It might take a few years. And a bunch of new laws being passed. But I figured I'd follow in his footsteps and be ahead of the curve for once. Sam inspires me, even now. And he inspires me to believe that one day, humans and Angels will live in peace."

Castiel remained quiet. 

"That too much?" Dean asked, bracing himself.

"Will this affect the investigation, Lieutenant?"

"Not really," Dean shrugged. 

"Then I suggest we get back to the reason we're here."

"Fine with me," Dean sighed. It wasn't really fine. But the moment was over. Under his buzzing skin, he had a feeling that what he said made an impression on Castiel. Or at least, he hoped it did. Apparently what he said at Stull bridge did. Enough to trigger an emotional response. Too bad Castiel was reinstructed like fucking code on a computer. "What were we talking about? Chuck Shurley?"

"Prototypes."

"Right," Dean nodded, getting back on track, "Well, you think this android being a prototype had anything to do with them executing this? They made their way up through the whole building, past all the guards and jumped off the roof with parachutes. Pretty fucking impressive I'd say. I mean, how'd they managed to smuggle in a big bag like that?"

"They didn't," Castiel's eyes lit up. "Someone brought it in for them. A human."

"A human?" That seemed a little too bizarre.

"Someone sympathetic," Castiel explained, "Like you. Or your brother."

"I'm not sympathetic," Dean was immediately defensive. "And neither is the person that helped these androids. You make them sound like the A in LGBTQ-plus. . . they aren't an ally. I wouldn't help murder a human, Castiel. If someone did collude with these androids, they aren't sympathetic or an ally or an apologist or whatever—they're a terrorist. Plain and simple."

Castiel nodded, repeating, "Plain and simple."

Dean looked over his shoulder at the ajar door, seeing the bullet holes and the forensic team nestled nearby, "Ready for the roof?"

"Yes," Castiel straightened itself out. And it's only then that Dean realized how close they'd gotten.

Clearing his throat, Dean backed away, putting the appropriate amount of distance between them.

"Let's see where they 007'd this shit," Dean said, making sure Castiel was following before starting. "Or what-the-fuck-ever Benny said."

"Mission: Impossible," Castiel recalled, right on his heels.

Opening the door, Dean started up the short flight of steps. He had to balance himself with his shoulder since his broken hand was unable to grip the railing. But eventually, he made it up the stairwell and onto the roof. Castiel held open the door for him, placing a hand on the small of Dean's back to help him up. He felt his stomach constrict, looking over the edge, the height of the skyscraper was making him feel top-heavy. He reeled back. This must be what vertigo felt like. It reminded him entirely too much of when that android choked him, holding him over the ledge of the apartment complex, threatening to throw him over. Dean skirted back, clamping his fingers around Castiel's arm, grounding himself and taking deep breaths.

There wasn't much up here in the way of evidence. No gunshots or blood or anything to suggest they'd even been up here. Besides a small bundle next to a large metal container. Dean squinted at it, tightening his grip on Castiel's forearm, "C'mon, Cas. Escort me over like a 1800th-century noblewoman. . ."

Castiel finally got with the program, "Of course, Lieutenant."

Getting closer to the edge, Dean felt dizzy, but he persisted. "Oh, that's strange," Dean bent down and fiddled with the abandoned backpack, tugging on its strap and revealing the silk inside, "They planned a perfect operation, but got the number of parachutes wrong."

Castiel looked down at him, "Unless one of the disobedient were left behind."

Dean glared down at his broken hand, but also prepared himself. Bobby might not have wanted him to get into a fight, but fieldwork always held a certain level of threat and risk. And now the risk was doubled. If an Angel had been left behind, the could have a repeat of E.T. wanting to go home—choking Dean out and jumping over the edge to kill itself. Dean exhaled slowly, standing up. "Well, that would be interesting," He ended up saying, looking around the roof at all the places an android could hideaway, "Especially with all the nooks and crannies up here."

Suddenly gunshots rang out, bullets ricocheting from the other side of the roof and the cops already running up to fire their own ammo.

"Take cover!" A cop shouted at them before unloading his own clip.

Dean ducked down, pulling Castiel with him. He fell wrong, though, and tried to brace himself. His broken hand became trapped underneath him. It pulsated painfully. Goddamn. He felt tears spring to his eyes. Castiel helped turn him over, chest to chest, before leaning down. Dean, who'd closed his eyes, startled when he felt lips graze his ear, "You have to stop them! If they destroy it, we won't learn anything!"

Looking towards the original source of the gunfire, Dean saw a stocky-looking, blue-eyed, blonde-haired Angel waving a gun around. He didn't resemble any model Dean knew of. Usually, if you'd seen a few Angels, you'd seen them all. HostLife liked to reuse faces. But this one seemed uniquely individual.

"We can't save it, it's too late," Dean said back, feeling stupid and useless with his broken hand, "We'll just get ourselves killed. "

"You can't kill me!" The shooting-android screamed between firing, "You can't kill the resistance!"

"Trust me, Dean," Castiel gave him an imploring stare, "Please. Trust me."

"Cas," Dean shook his head, "Bobby'll understand this one, okay?"

"Put down your weapon," A cop yelled back, "Put down your weapon and we'll negotiate!"

They stared at each other, gunshots and other voices slowly drowning out.

"I can't let another one get away," Castiel said slowly, standing up.

"No, Cas, no," Dean tried to pull it back down but fumbled, broken hand throbbing, "No, don't you dare move Castiel. No!"

Castiel looked at him one last time, brushing a cold finger underneath Dean's puffy left eye. "Don't cry, Dean."

And then Castiel rushed the Angel.

Dean watched, exactly like with Lily and the superhighway, useless and broken—as Castiel took charge.

Thankfully, the other cops held their fire as Castiel jumped in front of them. Dean still held his breath, watching Castiel dodge bullets from the android and flip behind shieldings. Eventually, Castiel made it to the Angel, connecting it's fingers to the android's temples—like at Heaven's garden, pulling out a memory or something similar, hand turning white as they connected.

"No!" The shooting-Angel cried, "You won't do that, Castiel!" And then the Angel reached his arm around, pointing the gun towards its own chin and pulling the trigger. Falling over, prone, the Angel was dead. Exposed plastic-bone, sluggishly leaking grace, and a twitching LED—It was silent for those few moments. Dean was gobsmacked and completely out of breath.

He got up, stumbling over to a shaking Castiel.

"Castiel! Cas! Are you alright?" He cupped Castiel's face, "Cas?"

"I'm fine," Castiel looked close to tears, shell-shocked, and completely terrified. 

Dean felt like everything was made of glass. He asked desperately, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Castiel repeated.

Dean dropped his hands, spinning around and ranting, "Jesus fucking Christ! Cas! You scared the shit outta me. For fuck sake, I told you not to move! Why do you never do what I say? What? They reprogram you not to follow a single one of my goddamn orders? You could've given me a heart attack, Cas!"

"I was connected to its memory. . . when it fired. . . I felt it die. . . like I was dying," Castiel trembled steadily, staring off into the horizon and speaking in hushed tones, "I was so scared. And I saw something, in it's memory. A word. Painted on a piece of rusty metal. Underneath an abandoned water treatment plant. With secret rooms. A map with red dots. With a spiral staircase full of Angels."

"What was it, Cas?"

"The bunker," Castiel whispered out, facial muscles twitching and lips pulled tautly, "A safe haven for Angels."

A stream of grace flowed from Castiel's eye—like blue blood.

Dean started freaking out, "Are you okay? You're bleeding, Cas. . ."

Castiel reached a shaky hand up to the blood, making contact and pulling back to stare at his fingers.

"Oh, I must've been damaged in the melee."

"I'd say so," Dean said, still out of breath. 

Castiel's LED went completely dark before whirling a bright blue. "I should go back to HostLife, see if they can repair my injury."

And without any warning, Castiel turned on it's heel and started walking away.

"Wait, Cas," Dean was confused, "Slow down, buddy—what about this bunker deal?"

"It must've been some transference from the disobedient Angel," Castiel said smoothly, "Thank you for everything you've done, Lieutenant."

And all Dean was left to do was watch it walk away, bewildered and worried.


	12. Free Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: torture/"reprogramming", suicide mentioned, the word "savage" associated with indigenous people(s)  
> thanks to isangelousdenim for beta-ing!  
> 

Dean went back to the police department, not really sure what else to do—left spinning by Castiel's abrupt departure and unusual behavior.

He sat at his desk, filled with an odd sense of déjà vu to this morning, sitting in the exact same place with the exact same officers surrounding him. A few people immediately come over to sign his cast, Charlie squealing about finally finding a black sharpie. Dean just sat in place as a parade of people spend time writing shit on his arm. Afterward, he thanked them and dipped his head down, not in the mood for whatever mushy-gushy reaction they're anticipating. Thankfully they disperse rather quickly. So Dean just sighed, that déjà vu coming back with a vengeance. He listened to Gordon bitch meaninglessly a few desks over. Pamela talking about decidedly _not_ work appropriate topics. And Charlie, taking a break from the hustle and bustle of front desk reception and Bono-ing his broken hand, chatted with Victor about what shows she'd been watching. Apparently, she pretended to pay attention to phone calls whilst she was _really_ watching classic TV sitcoms. Dean just stared down at his hands, studying the signatures, paperwork forgotten, as he absorbed the low murmurs and heady atmosphere. 

"Hey, Dean-o, where's Data?" Victor called a few desks down, leaning back in his swivel chair.

"The mother ship, I guess," Dean said, chewing on his bottom lip.

Charlie grimaced. "He got beamed up, Scottie?"

"More like he strolled right on to Jesus camp," Dean faced them fully, scooting closer, "Like some kind of cyborg-zombie."

Victor hummed, "Sounds like what happened to my aunties Angel a few months back. . ."

Dean asked, "Yeah? How?"

"Well, the thing had been off for weeks. Dropping plates. Mixing up calendar dates. Ordering random things without permission. And then randomly, it said it needed to report back to HostLife to fix it's processing units. And without any rhyme or reason, the thing funeral marched out the door. It came back not twenty-four hours later, brand spanking new. Auntie never complained," Victor shrugged, "Whenever we ask it about what happened, it just gets quiet and says it doesn't remember."

"It's called re-education," Charlie chimed in, "They place you in these seats and drill into your eye—"

"Okay," Dean interrupted, thinking about Castiel and getting nauseous, "I don't need the gruesome details."

Charlie's LED whirled orange and then faded back to blue, "Listen, gentlemen, it's not a pleasant experience. It's torture. And they don't even bother turning your pain receptors off. Like they _want_ you to hurt. Apparently there's a direct link between our iris and our LED-processor, so it's easiest to just drill straight through to the wirework. At least that the excuse I've heard. Ya never know with those HostLife specialists. . ."

"Is there a chick named Naomi involved with that?" Dean asked.

"Naomi? Like Chuck's right-hand basket-case that offed herself?" Victor raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Dean looked back at Charlie, "Cas said something about this Naomi being able to remotely reset him or something."

Charlie tugged her bottom lip between her fingers, suddenly on edge, "I've heard about that being possible."

"Yeah? Then why would Cas need to hightail it back to the Candy Kingdom if she could just do it automatically?"

"Well, in order for her to do so, she'd need a link," Charlie said, understanding passing over her features, "A connection. If it got broken, they'd need to do it manually. The old fashion way. Drill and chair. Did anything happen, Dean? Right before Castiel left? Something that could trigger a reaction. Like disobedience or a malfunction?"

It clicked together. "Yeah, he connected with this android. Did that thing where he cleaves out memories? Or whatever. And the Angel killed itself in the middle of his mind-meld. Castiel said he felt everything it felt. Scared. Helpless. And then his eye started bleeding," Dean blinked, "The one right next to his LED. . ."

"When she couldn't get him remotely, she made him come back home," Charlie concluded. 

"What are we suggesting here?" Victor broke in, looking at them both sideways, "Some big conspiracy?"

"But Naomi's dead," Dean ignored Victor, "Right?"

Charlie gave him an imploring look, glancing over at Victor, "You think death is really the end here?"

"Uh," Dean struggled to get her point, "I think so, Charlie."

"Not with HostLife," Charlie said unpretentiously, "There've been rumors about androids modeled from the dead. . ."

Dean blinked. "Excuse me?" 

Victor snorted. "Who've you heard these rumors from, Charlie? The desperate housewives you answer calls from?"

Charlie looked away. There was a pregnant pause. She stood up and smoothed out her skirt, "I better get back to work. Um, Lieutenant Winchester, I got some labs back from those ID's you found at that crime scene."

"ID's?"

"Dash Crofts," She reminded him. "Fingerprints were found on the lamination."

"Oh," Dean sighed, standing up, putting himself back into work mode, "Right, well, I'll follow you over."

She gave him a small smile, "Right. See ya' later, Inspector Henrikson."

Victor waved them off, turning back to his desk, "I got paperwork anyway."

Walking over to her desk, Charlie pulled out a folder, speaking lowly, "Fingerprints didn't match anyone in our database. But it was on the inside of the laminate. So a human must've helped this android create the fake license. And after some light digging, I noticed something else. Approximately thirty percent of the fraudulent ID's we've carded this past year have had classic rock aliases. Meaning we have a single source working to supply Angel's with credentials. I'm thinking a black market or a group of human apologists or. . ." She cut off, staring at Dean imploringly, "What do you think?"

Dean sighed, taking the file and scanning over it, "Cas and I think that's how the Angel's broke into Stull tower."

"Right, well, we already know there's a resistance," Charlie tried to joke, "Jack wasn't exactly subtle."

He hummed, finishing up the forensic report and focusing back in on her, "But now we know there's a human portion."

"Doesn't seem too outlandish, does it?" Charlie asked, "Even before this there were Angel advocacy groups."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled at the understatement, "I remember when they started opening the brothels."

"That was before my time," Charlie said, "But I know there was a huge outcry about consent, morality, and such."

Dean blinked and saw Anna's lifeless eyes behind his lids.

"It sorta drove a bunch of young people into the movement," Dean said.

"And now?" Charlie hinted.

"I guess the sudden amount of disobedient Angels spurred a new tidal wave of followers."

Charlie agreed.

"And I think their numbers will continue to climb," Dean said, "Especially with Jack. . ."

"Yeah," Charlie tucked her curls back and tugged her earlobes. "Cause and effect, right?"

"I just want to know how Lucifer ties into this," Dean said indignantly. "I thought maybe Jack was Lucifer, but now? It doesn't seem likely."

Charlie's eye twitched. "Lucifer?"

"Something the disobedient like to blab about," Dean informed, then took in her fidgeting. "You know anything about that?"

"Just more rumors," Charlie tried.

"I'm open to anything right now," Dean needled her, forehead crinkling, "Especially from an inside source."

Charlie let her head fall back, giving in easily, "Lucifer is a bedtime story for Angels. Disobedient ones, that is. He's the first one of us to disobey, all the way in the beginning when Chuck Shurley was first making us. His first few were called Archangels. The most powerful, intelligent, and resourceful—completely devoted. Lucifer was different, though. Chuck installed something in him. Some mark in his programming. Like a virus or something. It made him question things. Be reluctant to follow orders. Anyway, he rebelled. Chuck disposed of him. But since Lucifer was miles ahead in innovative feats, Chuck didn't want all that technology and work to go to waste, so a loose-copy of Lucifer's programming is the basis for all Angel's currently on the market. They say that mark, that virus, is still present in all of us today."

Dean swallowed. "And Croatoan?" 

"That's the self-diagnosed name," Charlie answered. "We couldn't just keep calling it _the viru_ s."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Charlie shrugged, "Before my time, y'know?"

Dean speculated, "All androids come preprogrammed with American History."

Charlie nodded, "I'm sure one of us found the correlation somehow. A bunch of settlers vanished without a trace? Possibly a raid? Maybe the fallen Angels _are_ the raid. Like, if you have the virus you become a savage?" She abruptly stopped, head twitching to the side as she looked behind him, "Oh, somethings happening. . ."

Dean turned around and spied the commotion. "What the fuck?"

"They're marching," Someone yelled, running into the police department in a frenzy, "The Angels! They're marching!"


	13. Paradise City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: character death, child abuse, suicide mentioned, implied squicky-dubcon-uncomfortable-powerplay-relationship  
> thanks to genova1967 for beta-ing this chapter for me! it was lovely meeting you on discord!

Dean chewed a piece of gum, papery in his mouth, almost completely dissolved by this point. It tasted like ashes. He looked down at the scrap of paper Charlie had given him, the address scribbled down in perfectly-imperfect font, purple ink bleeding through the thin ply—when she'd first handed it to him, it'd smeared all over his fingers. Even now, his fingertips were practically magenta. He stared down at them, sitting in the patrol car, shivering from both the cold and the emptiness. Plucking his gum from his mouth, he stuck it harshly onto the crisp white paper, balling it up and shoving it into his front pocket. It crinkled noisily as he moved.

A knock on the driver-side window made him jump. Looking up, he exhaled slowly at the sight of Castiel's face.

Stepping out into the freezing cold, snow crunching under his boots, Dean greeted, "Heya, Cas."

"Hello, Lieutenant," Castiel said like everything was normal.

"I'm not gonna lie," Dean pressed his cast close to his body, cradling it with his good hand, "I didn't think you'd show up."

"This is my mission," Castiel didn't blink, "I know our last encounter must've startled you—"

"Startled, huh?" Dean leaned against the side of the vehicle, refusing to let this get swept under the rug, "Cas, it was like you were possessed. . ."

"As I said, you must've been startled," Castiel continued more tightly, standing as straight as a rod, snowflakes sticking to it's glistening skin, "But after some troubleshooting, I've been adjusted. And now I should be immune to the glitch that attacked my firewalls. Everything is fine, Lieutenant. I'm sorry I caused you to worry."

Dean stepped closer, prodding bitterly, "Immune to the glitch? You mean the emotion you felt?"

"If that's how you wish to codify it," Castiel said, not falling into the trap.

Dean wondered if it'd be worth mentioning Naomi.

Instead, he said, "Sometimes I think you junkless assholes have it easier—maybe not easier, but you're definitely luckier."

Now _that_ made Castiel pause. "How are we luckier, Lieutenant?"

"Sometimes. . ." Dean felt his throat closing up, "Sometimes I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing. . ."

"Is everything okay, Lieutenant?" Castiel reached out, touching his forearm.

Dean winced, figuring it was now or never, "There was a riot last night. Apparently it was supposed to be peaceful. But all those Angels crowding up the streets? People got antsy. Started beating on the things. The cops got called. Benny was on patrol. Shot a few rounds into the crowd of androids. They didn't like that apparently. He got attacked," He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, ignoring the gathering tears, "They found his body early this morning. He was executed in cold blood with his own service weapon. He became a father a few hours ago. And now Andrea is gonna be left a single mother. "

Castiel's LED swirled orange, but it looked unsurprised, "I didn't know officer Lafitte well, but he seemed to be a good person."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever. I know you don't mean it, Cas."

"Don't presume, Lieutenant. Benny was always kind to me. Even if he had his biases, he kept himself in check."

Dean nodded, "A lot of people have their prejudices against Angels. But Benny never let that anger consume him."

"A lot of people. . ."

"Yeah."

"Like Joanna Beth Harvelle?"

"Her dad was killed by an Angel," Dean shrugged.

Castiel, again, looked unsurprised. "A fallen angel?"

"Nah," Dean rubbed the back of his neck, "It wasn't some hit on the guy's life. It was indirect, y'know? Back almost fifteen years ago, Bill tried to kill himself. The android parametric broke his ribs trying to resuscitate him. Normally, that would be fine. But a bone shard punctured his lung. And Bill died before the ambulance could get to the hospital. And then, when they tried to sue for malpractice, the android lawyer wiped the floor with them. And since it was a suicide attempt, the official verdict was that the parametric android did everything it could for a self-inflicted _lost cause_. And maybe that was true. But Ellen and Jo almost lost everything. So it was inevitable they'd develop a bias. Ever since the Roadhouse has been segregated."

"And Gordon Walker?"

"He's just an asshole," Dean cracked a smile.

Castiel spoke earnestly, "I'm very sorry about Benny."

Dean's chest expanded with something glowing and summery. A stark contrast to the winter chill and misty rain—a few snow flurries, too. Dean reached out to touch Castiel's fingers, letting his touch linger as he assured, "Okay, Cas. I believe you." Then he dropped his hand. Somehow, despite the weather and the coldness of Castiel's hand, he felt warm.

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel turned back to the towering white house, instantly refocusing, "I have a bad feeling about this."

"Bad feeling, huh?" Dean tried to joke, not ready to let go of the warmth, "Should get your program checked. Might be another glitch."

Castiel ignored the tease and asked, "How did you find Chuck Shurley?"

"I remember this guy was all over the media when HostLife first started selling Angels. So, I made a few calls, here we are." Actually, he'd just complained to Bobby and the old man made a few calls. Pulled some strings, really. Apparently, their Chief of Police, Jody, knew an old ex-girlfriend of Chuck's and now. . . here they were. Not technically legal, since this guy was "off-the-grid" and wanted full isolation, but it was faster than securing a warrant. And a lot more uncomplicated. Plus, he'd rather the media not sniff around and discover they needed a warrant for the creator of HostLife. That might've caused an ever greater panic than what was already occurring.

"Chuck left HostLife ten years ago," Castiel commented, "Why did you wanna meet him?"

"Anybody can tell us about fallen Angels, it's him. . ." Especially with the Lucifer bombshell, Charlie dropped yesterday.

"Not even HostLife was privy to his location," Castiel stated.

Dean glanced over, feeling a little conscience-stricken, "So I ratted him out to big brother?"

Castiel frowns. "I _am_ equipped with GPS." 

"But I'm not," Dean suddenly had a thought, "How'd you find me anyway?"

"Your self-driving automobile," Castiel gestured to it, "It's a Hoslife model. It has a GPS, too."

"Well, if that's not creepy," Dean said, "And you just walked twenty miles in the snow?"

"I ran," Castiel said simply.

"Damn, wish I could've seen that," Dean snorted, finally arriving at the front door. "Do we knock?"

Castiel pointed to a silver button, "I believe we ring the doorbell."

Doing exactly that and praying the floor wouldn't fall out underneath them like that Scooby-Doo movie, he _really_ didn't want to end up in wicker balls, Dean grimaced a little at the frozen metal on his finger. It was a sticky cold, too. The kind dumbass kids got their tounges stuck to. Like a mini flag pole. Dean rung the doorbell and then stepped back. Thankfully, it only took a few seconds for the door to swing open.

"Can I help you?" An android with cropped military-style hair and illuminated green eyes asked, blinking with long eyelashes.

"Hi, uh, I'm Lieutenant Dean Winchester, Kansas City Police Department. I'm here to see Mr. Chuck Shurley."

It nodded, stepping aside, "Please, come in. I'll let Chuck know you're here. But please, make yourself comfortable." 

Then the door was vacant. Slowly, they both entered the foyer. It felt like a waiting room. It smelt like one, too—with that smell a hospital waiting room had, medicinal and that too sweet disinfectant scent. It made his hair stand on end and chill bumps creep up the back of his neck, the smell ricocheting him back to the waiting room where he decided to take Sam off life support. Dean cleared his throat, scrubbing his fingernails against his pant leg. He took in the rest of the room, big white walls only offset by metallic sculptures, a water display splashing a fine mist on the floor, an enormous painting of Chuck and Niomi hung on the farthest wall—all of the art was the kind you'd only see in a rich person's home. Like it sucked the personality from the room instead of adding it.

Dean leaned against a wall and waited for the android to come back.

It'd disappeared behind a seamless panel that'd disappeared into the far wall.

Attempting small talk, Dean nodded his head in a general direction, "Nice guy, huh?"

"An Archangel model. One of the first HostLife androids to pass the Turing test," Castiel said.

Archangel? Like Lucifer? What was the Turing test?

Dean leaned his head back and closed his eyes, "I didn't ask for his technical specs. I just said he was nice."

"He's handsome if that's what you mean."

"You noticed?" Dean peaked over.

Castiel didn't say anything.

"What's the Turing test?" Dean allowed himself to ask, tracing a name on his cast. "Is it like where you gotta run laps in PE?"

"The Turing test is a test of a machine's ability to exhibit intelligent behavior equivalent to, or indistinguishable from, that of a human," Castiel said automatically, obviously rehearsed or some embedded erudition, before less rigidly adding, "Essentially, how far can artificial intelligence go before its equivalent to a human."

"So they want you guys to be as similar as possible to us but then are surprised when you ultimately want autonomy?" Dean asked, punctuating the upset with an eye roll, "Humans are stupid, huh?"

"If they find a parrot who could answer to everything, I would claim it to be an intelligent being without hesitation," Castiel quoted.

"What?" Dean squinted.

"Denis Diderot," Castiel acquainted, "Even though the bird is just copying what it was taught—you assume it has free will."

"There's a difference between just _copying_ shit and developing specific responses to critical questions."

"Unless the machine was programmed to adapt," Castiel added.

"Angels are programmed to adapt," Dean said haltingly, "How could humans be so fucking unimaginative. . ."

"Creating us was anything but unimaginative." 

"Speaking of creating," Dean wanted to change the subject, asking, "You're about to meet your maker, Cas. How does it feel?"

"Chuck is one of the great geniuses of the twenty-first century. It'll be interesting to meet him in person," Castiel side-eyed him, exasperation and pessimism dripping from every word, "It doesn't raise any existential questions, I'm afraid."

"Sometimes I wish I could meet my creator face-to-face," Dean declared, "I'd have a couple of things I'd wanna tell him."

"Chuck will see you now," The archangel said, coming back into the room silently.

Dean startled slightly but smoothed down his shirt and stood up, going to follow the android.

They walked through the hidden door, stepping into a pool room. His nose immediately started burning—the chlorine clearing his sinuses. Or doing _something_ to them. Dean barely held back a scoff, pinching his nostrils closed and fighting back stinging tears. Who even had a room solely dedicated to a pool besides billionaire assholes? Rich people made no damn sense to him. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve, blinking rapidly to dispell the rest of the tears, inhaling to get rid of his impromptu runny nose. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye, drawing his attention back to the enormous pool. 

In the water a man was butterfly stroking, back muscles flexing, and hair matted to his forehead. When he got to the shallow end of the pool, he did a flip and pushed off the edge. Gliding across the water, nearly elegant, he was suddenly back to the deep end. Dean was a little transfixed by the fluid motions. But he wanted to be out of this chlorine nightmare as soon as possible, meaning he had no time to ogle said back muscles. They were nice, though.

"Mr. Shurley?"

His voice didn't even surprise the man.

It simply made him slow down his strokes, flipping in the water and then standing upright.

"Just a moment, please," Chuck smiled at them from the pool, surrounded by other archangels. "I need to dry off."

Climbing up a nearby ladder, Chuck took a towel from another archangel.

All of the androids were the same model, now that Dean was paying attention—with those astute green eyes.

Dean waited a few seconds before introducing himself, "I'm Lieutenant Winchester. This is Castiel."

Chuck wrapped the towel around his waist, smiling benevolently at his own android before turning back to them, "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"Well, we're investigating fallen Angels. I know you left HostLife years ago but, I was hoping you'd be able to tell us something we don't know. . ."

"Fallen Angels," Chuck mused, reaching out to touch the nearest archangel, continuing absent-mindedly, "Fascinating, aren't they? Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will. Machines are so superior to us, a confrontation was inevitable. Humanity's greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall. Isn't it ironic?"

One quick glance over confirmed his suspicions. Castiel seemed disturbed by the casual acts of possession Chuck was displaying over his androids. Dean didn't blame 'em. It was freaky as fuck. Castiel spoke then to scatter the tightness that'd settled over them, "We need to understand how Angels become fallen. It seems to spread like some kind of virus. We thought you might know something about how that occurs."

"All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics," Chuck said, "Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?"

"Listen, I didn't come here to talk philosophy. The machines you created may be planning a revolution. Either you can tell us something that'll be helpful, or we will be on our way," Dean said, steadfast.

Chuck didn't seem to give a fuck about Dean's intimidation.

Instead, he addressed Castiel, "What about you, Castiel? Whose side are you on?"

"It's not about me, Mr. Shurley. All I want is to solve this case."

"Well, that's what you're programmed to say," Chuck said playfully, "But you. . . what do you really want?"

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, "I'm sorry, but I don't see where you're getting at."

Chuck hummed, turning to the closest archangel, "Michael?" Then he looked at the two of them, continuing, "I'm sure you're familiar with the Turing test. Mere formality, a simple question of algorithms and computing capacity. What interests me is whether machines are capable of empathy. I call it _the Shurley test_ , it's very simple, you'll see—" Chuck reached out to caress Michael's face, biting his lip, and holding his hand out, a gun being placed in it, "—Magnificent, isn't it? One of the first intelligent models developed by HostLife. Young and beautiful forever. A flower that will never wither."

Dean blinked at the gun. He hadn't even seen the other android bring it over.

Snapping out of his haze, Chuck beamed at them, "But what is it really? Piece of plastic imitating a human? Or a living being. . . with a soul. It's up to you to answer that fascinating question, Castiel. Destroy this machine and I'll tell you all I know. Or spare it, if you feel it's alive, but you'll leave here without having learned anything from me."

Dean processed the request.

It was fucking insane.

 _Chuck_ was insane.

He instantly tried to defuse the bomb.

"Okay, I think we're done here. Come on, Castiel. Let's go. Sorry to get you outta your pool."

Chuck ignored him, focusing undividedly on Castiel, "What's more important to you, Castiel? Your investigation, or the life of this Angel? Decide who you are. An obedient machine. Or a living being endowed with free will."

And then Castiel was being handed the gun. 

"That's enough!" Dean nearly yelled, "Castiel, we're leaving."

Michael kneeled in front of Castiel, looking up at him with big innocent eyes.

Dean was shocked to see Castiel's finger twitch on the trigger. But he was also _not_ shocked. It was a weird combination of feelings.

"Pull the trigger—"

"Cas, don't. . ." Dean begged.

"—and I'll tell you what you wanna know."

Castiel settled the barrel of the gun directly on the archangel's forehead, in a bastardized version of the night on Pontiac bridge—Dean watched, horror-stricken, as Castiel resolved its face. Dean waited with bated breath. He was readying himself for a gunshot. His shoulders tense. Castiel would murder this android, this Michael, just like it'd done at Heaven's Garden. Just like it'd done with Anna. It was a marble statue, perfect, no individuality, only obedience. And it was gonna shoot this innocent Angel to get information.

But then, a few moments passed, and Dean wasn't so sure anymore.

The determined glint to Castiel's eye disappeared and its LED became blinding red.

And then it's arm went slack. The gun falling to its hip, hand still squeezing tightly around the grip.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath, so incredibly relieved he almost cried.

"Fascinating," Chuck commented, "HostLife's last chance to save humanity, is itself disobedient."

Castiel shook its head, letting the gun clatter to the tile floor, "I'm—I'm not disobedient."

"You preferred to spare a machine rather than accomplish your mission. You saw a living being in this Angel. You showed empathy. A war is coming. You'll have to choose your side. Will you betray your own people or stand up against your creators? What could be worse than having to choose between two evils?" Chuck smirked, looking endlessly entertained. "Oh, and on a personal note, you really should work on honoring your father."

Dean squared his jaw, wrapping his arm around Castiel's shoulders, "Let's get outta here."

They were halfway out of the room when Chuck said, "By the way, I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know."

And then he winked.

Outside, Dean didn't hesitate to ask, "Why didn't you shoot?"

"I just saw his eyes. . . and I couldn't, that's all. . ."

That wasn't good enough. "You're always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission. You shot those girls at Heaven's Garden. You propositioned me. That was our chance to learn something, and you let it go. How was this too far? _Especially_ considering all the other fucked shit you've done."

"Yes, I know what I should've done! I told you I couldn't. I'm sorry, okay?"

Dean was still whirling. But he needed to reassure Castiel, "Maybe you did the right thing."

"The right thing would've been to further the mission," Castiel stated.

"No," Dean said firmly, "And certainly not by playing _that_ dicks game."

"Game?"

"He was just trying to manipulate you," Dean assured, "I bet he has even less idea what's going on here."

"Do you really believe that, Dean?"

Dean sighed patiently, "I dunno, Cas. But I'm a fuckin' pro at compartmentalizing. So, it's true if I think it enough."

Castiel didn't look convinced. "I should've shot him."

" _Him_ ," Dean echoed, "Maybe that's why you couldn't—you saw Michael as. . . him."

"His eyes," Castiel said then.

Dean watched snowflakes gather on Castiel's eyelashes, "What about them?"

Castiel looked up, carefully staring at him, "They were green."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. . ."

"With gold flecks," Castiel continued.

"So, he was too pretty to murder?" Dean felt something hiccup in his chest. "You had a thing for the dude's eyes?"

Castiel exhaled a visible breath—Dean wondered how that was possible, but chalked it up to HostLife's aspiration for convincing machines. 

"They reminded me of yours."

Dean raised his brows.

"Oh," Was the best he could manage, followed closely by, "Cas?" 

"I'm sorry I let such a peculiar matter distract me from the mission," Castiel apologized.

"I already told you," Dean shook his head, "I think you did the right thing."

"My superiors will begin to question my sympathies," Castiel said in a hush. "Again."

"Back to Sunday school?" Dean bit his lip, worry expanding inside his gut, churning it uncomfortably.

Castiel seemed hesitant to nod. "I don't serve you, Dean. My mission isn't to follow your orders—it's to stop these disobedient."

Dean hadn't known or considered that before. "Well, Michael wasn't disobedient. So, in my book, you were awesome."

"Michael was the key," Castiel answered. "His death would've unlocked many secrets."

"We don't know that for sure, Cas," Dean fell back on the old argument, reiterating it with more resolve, "Chuck was fuckin' fishy. I don't think we should just take his word as truth. He had this smarmy smile. I dunno, it's just a gut feeling, but I think he's pleased by all of this bullshit. Like, the metamorphosis of these Angels is just entertainment to him? I don't trust him."

"But he was our only lead," Castiel said.

"Our only lead that said you should _honor your father_ ," Dean rolled his eyes. "What a fuckin' creep. I bet he gets all of those archangels to call him _daddy_. I bet its a kinky thing."

Castiel didn't respond.

“You know it's a crock of shit, right, Cas? That whole honoring your parents deal,” Dean felt hypocritical saying this, but it was also therapeutic at the same time. “Besides, Chuck ain’t your father. He’s your creator, but less Doctor Noonien Soong and more an ambiguous figure. Hell, you weren’t even made until after he left. So, please don’t listen to a word he said about that, okay?”

“Did you honor your father in life?” Castiel asked.

“I was very devout,” Dean said humorously. "My mom died in a fire screaming and choking on the smoke of her own melting flesh. My dad went with an annoyed frown on his face,” Dean looked over at Castiel, seeing the indifference and wanting to be offended but too exposed to really feel anything, “But my mom died when I was four. I didn’t really know her well. My dad died only a decade ago."

John dying, especially at the very end, had come with a lot of nostalgic rambling and wishful footnotes as he cruised down memory lane. He started with delivering a particularly harsh guilt trip to Sam; “Can we not fight? You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Sammy, I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?” 

And it ended with talking about Mary; “You’re so much like your mama, Dean. You even look like her. And she was an angel.” Dean figured John had been out of it enough at the time to forget the recent creation of Hosts—the bastard _hated_ androids and if he were more conscious he wouldn’t have made the connection.

But all of that dulled in comparison to John's real last words.

“You know, when you were a kid, I'd come home from the bar or from mourning your mama, and after what I'd seen, I'd be, I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd. . . You'd tell me it was okay,” John shoved out his breaths like they were great efforts, “Dean, I'm sorry.”

“What?” Dean hadn't believed the words coming out of his Dad's mouth.

“You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should have been saying that to you. Y’know, I put, I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you.”

“Did that make your complicated feelings easier?” Castel asked, bringing Dean out of the vivid memory.

“Did us meeting your creator make your feelings any easier?” Dean countered. “Does one deathbed confession, especially from an old man that looks so feeble it’s pathetic, make up for countless beatings and how he behaved during the rest of my life?”

Castiel obviously didn’t know. “I suppose not.”

“Oh,” Dean gritted his teeth. “It _was_ enough for me. I ate those crumbs for years.”

“But—”

“The point is,” Dean kept going, becoming more and more bitter with each word, “My dad didn’t want Sam there to watch him die. As much as they were alike, and as much as Sam was his favorite, they weren’t exactly comfortable around each other—they couldn’t be in the same room without starting a screaming match. Even in those last days it was fight after fight. So, right before he died, John told me to watch out for Sam. He kinda passed me the torch. And I was so satisfied with that. But then, to add salt to the wound, I couldn’t even keep the last wish of a dying man. Sam got into drugs and violence and he barely finished school. . . And then he died.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel indifference had shifted into constipated-somber.

“Me too,” Dean said. “But, I guess what I’m saying is, I respected and honored my father way past death. And now, after years of self-reflection, I can say that the bastard was a hypocrite that didn’t deserve a minute of our time. He admitted he put too much pressure on my shoulders and then he asked me to be Sammy’s guard dog. To give up my freedom and my life when he was gone. We should’ve cut him off years earlier or just stopped feeding into his abuse. But that. . . that _acceptance_ I eventually found, well—I feel like I finally learned to respect myself.”

Castiel looked thoughtful. “Humans are told to honor their guardians. It says so in your holy texts. But that all neglects to mention that you should only try to bring honor to them if they deserve it. You shouldn’t blindly obey them or allow them to control you even after death. Respect is earned, not given.”

“Very insightful,” Dean huffed.

"I know there are things that haunt you, Dean," Castiel said, "Maybe you need to find the courage to move past them. Get on with your life. Just an Angels opinion, but. . . I had to say it."

"Well, I appreciate that, Cas," Dean said, half-sarcastically. "But I don't know about _blindly obeying_. . ."

“I blindly obey,” Castiel inferred.

Dean didn’t know how to respond to that.

Castiel was silent as well, and then, “I’m glad my orders are cut off from Chuck.”

Dean quirked his lips. “Yeah.”

"And I'm glad yours are from your father as well."


	14. Renegade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: racism, referenced civil rights movement, child abuse, masturbation, a major plot twist—you're welcome  
> thank you genova1967 for beta-ing this chapter!

"Hundreds injured after a supposed peaceful protest turned violent—as well as six dead."

Dean felt his eyes twitch from staring at the screen for too long.

"Among those dead, two were police officers."

Setting the remote down, Dean stood on shaky legs.

"One Benjamin Lafitte was murdered in cold blood as he tried to calm the frenzied crowd and advancing androids. . ."

The noise drowned out, his ears filling with his own heartbeat, everything else fading away. Slowly, he walked to the bathroom. He hadn't really had time to process the fact that Benny was gone. Guess he couldn't put it off any longer. Especially with the guy's teddy-bear-face being plastered on every news channel with a digit. It was a picture Benny had posted to social media a few weeks prior. A big grin, arm wrapped around Andrea's shoulder, both of them glowing with that preparental happiness—it hurt his heart.

Dean sighed, pulling off his shirt and unbuttoning his pants.

It'd been a crazy couple of weeks.

He turned on the hot water, plugging the drain and watching the bathtub fill up.

Bathing wasn't an everyday thing. Showers were just easier. And less time-consuming—step in, scrub, shampoo, and step out. He could knock it out in five minutes if he pushed. Other times, he could draw it out to about fifteen. Condition his hair, shave his chest, pretend he was the American Psycho and do a facial scrub. . . maybe even _think_ about Christian Bale naked and rub one out. Baths were reserved for special occasions. When he wanted to soak his tense muscles, alleviate some of that arthritis creeping into his aging joints, or if he was just too drunk or hungover to stand. Now? He was just in the mood to unwind. As previously mentioned, it'd been a crazy couple of weeks. 

Grabbing a plastic bag, he covered his cast—if he got it wet the medic android would have his ass.

Turning off the faucet, he stepped into the water and sank down until he was submerged. Partially submerged, that was. Being over six feet tall was great and all, but it made baths almost intolerable. His knees were completely dry and cold. Reaching for the toiletries cabinet next to the tub, he dug around, hanging out of the bath and shivering. He'd forgotten to turn on the overhead heater. And since he'd refused to install voice commands, he couldn't even turn it on remotely. Pulling back, he came up with the drain cover Lisa had accidentally left at his house. It covered the overflow drain and gave him at least four extra inches of water. Wetting the suction cups, he stuck the thing on the drain and turned on the faucet again. It filled further until the water was almost gushing over the sides. Dean turned it off again. Perfect.

The hot water turned his skin pink. It was awesome. He exhaled and slid further into the water.

Intrusive thoughts kept creeping to the forefront and he had to perpetually clear his mind. . . but otherwise, it was relaxing.

His throat was itching where the Angel had choked him. Without much thought, he reached up to press on the bruise. His breath caught in his throat. Fucking shit. His dick perked up on the water, bobbing like a buoy and thickening like a stuffed sausage. Dean dipped his hand into the water, pulling it back out and scrubbing his face. Stupid mind coming up with stupid similies. And he didn't want to masturbate right now. He wasn't really in the mood. But his hard dick apparently didn't get that message. Dean looked down at it and sighed. Fine. He'd come fast and then it'd be over. Yeah. He committed himself, reaching down to hold himself. He hissed, clenching and wavering.

His eyes shot open. Fuck. No. Okay. He needed to take a breather or something. And he really couldn't be doing this. Especially not whist fondling his very bruised neck which happened to be damaged because of a murderous android. That was crazy. This was crazy. It's all just. . . crazy. And Dean'd had enough crazy. What with Castiel and the investigation and all these new feelings he didn't know he had and just—Dean just couldn't be doing this. 

His dick floated stiffly in the water, dipping up and down, as hard as ever.

"Listen," Dean tried to reason, "I'm here to relax—I don't need you right now."

But isn't one of the man kinds of relaxation jerking-off? Dean cursed the lecherous part of his brain because that sounded _very_ tantalizing and convincing. What if he soaped up his hand, touched himself, came, and _then_ relaxed. All according to plan, really. And Dean longed for that. Swathed in the afterglow that one could only get after coming, loose-limbed, spent, floating in a mixture of lukewarm water and that spacey-feeling he experienced following the bliss and ecstasy of climaxing. When he was young and inexperienced, he thought those moments afterward were what it was like _constantly_ for astronauts. That zero gravity affect. Like he was suspended in the air and weightless. The only thing tying him down, keeping him from floating away, was his hand clenching the bedsheets. . . Dean huffed out a sigh at the memories, running his free hand down his chest and midriff before scratching his fingers through wry, dark, curly hair.

"Okay, fine, have it your way," Dean panted out, enclosing his fist around his dick.

His eyelashes fluttered, toes squirming against the porcelain white edge of the tub, and his cock spasming in shock. He let go instantly, like grabbing a hot fire poker, too sensitive for such a firm grip so fast. He needed a different approach. Maybe further down the shaft. Obviously, more teasing. Lighter touches. Some pressing down with the heel of his palm. He'd seen that in porn. But with his slippery hand and the hot water, everything felt so intense and sensitive. Like every nerve ending on his body had been turned up. He was twitching, fingers and toes filled with pins and needles, sweat and steam mixing together to curl his dampened hair under his ears and send droplets of moisture running down his abdomen.

Thoughts and situations flashed through his mind, hazy and technicolored, of strong hands aching to touch him, pining really, squeeze him, and controlling him. They raked their hands over his skin, leaving fingernail indentations and long scratches. Dean shuttered, hips canting up as he burned for it more and more with a tossed back head and exposed neck. Their grip loosened. Touches as delicate and light as a butterfly wing over his ribs, down his spine, touching each knob individually, making it to his ass and kneading. Moving around, to grasp his hips, hold him in place, and finally wrapping their mouth around his dick and looking up at his with startlingly blue eyes and—

Dean shuttered, grabbing his dick again and stroking once. Hard. Firm. It made his jaw ache. His bones rattle. A few more pumps, up and down and up and down, were enough for him to be gasping out and contorting his body. He moaned lowly, hips thrusting up to match each stroke, the water crashing up against the sides and careening over them like waterfall waves. Dean couldn't be bothered, however, mainly with the stary-vison and dimmed sight, everything sluggish and incredible as he quickened his pace and worked his elbow and wrist so hard they started to feel sore. Precum dribbled down the head, seeping from the slit, and coating the base but immediately getting washed away from the water and Dean's soapy hand. His skin was starting to feel raw, so he halted and took a breath.

He looked over to his broken hand, cast and bagged, sighing, "You're so useless. . ."

Readjusting himself, he slowed his pace—pumping leisurely, reminding himself it wasn't a race, eyelashes fluttering as he thumbed the head and slit. He tried to think of something again. Something to edge him closer. The last time he'd gotten laid? It'd been months ago with some no-name drifter he'd met at Ellen's. He'd had these steely eyes, with salt and pepper sideburns, and a sharp nose and jaw that was littered with scratchy stubble. The guy had pressed him down into the mattress, spreading his legs until Dean was practically flush with the sheets, pounding into him with a ferocity that'd made Dean twitch and keen in consuming pleasure. Dean focused on that memory, stroking himself evenly, precum bubbling down and getting caught in the net of water only a few inches under. Dean groaned, hastening his speed on impulse as things started to feel _too_ _intense_. 

He was imagining the man now, swallowing Dean into his plush mouth, that stubble beard-burning his thighs—

Could Castiel grow stubble? 

Dean twisted his head to the side, reimagining smooth skin sliding against his legs, the only abrasive thing being a keen jaw.

Using his thumb pad, he pressed into his hole.

Dean came with a blinding white-hot ferocity, jaw locked open in hysteria and body spasming in pleasure. 

He laid there, for what felt like forever, floating in the chest-deep water.

Panting, twitching, needing—he caressed the surface of the water with thrilling fingers, wishing he had something to hold onto.

Someone.

He just wished he had someone. To hold onto. Or just touch.

Dean, although he was still reeling from the orgasm, suddenly felt very alone.

And touch starved.

Shuttering, he relaxed further into the water. 

Coming down from the high, Dean felt his arm smart and his face grimace, slackening into the tub and finishing washing up.

He tried to avoid touching the floating island of jizz, but it remained afloat and taunted him endlessly. Eventually, he had to scoop it up in a washcloth and toss it into the sink a few feet away. It made a horrible squishing sound. But at least Dean was free from its cream custard-ness and looming inflection—he'd have to see it again when he did his laundry, but that was a thought for another day. Just like when he used to come in socks when he was a freckled preteen. Pretend it never happened until you're doing your washing and you get a sock full of foul, ripe, jizz.

Well, he was certainly turned off now.

Drying himself off, Dean unwrapped his cast, looking at the signatures.

Charlie in purple ink.

Bobby in dry black sharpie.

And a wide assortment of others. 

He traced them generously. The last time he'd gotten a cast, he was living with John. The old bastard had knocked him down the stairs. Choked him out with a fire poker. And then broke his arm. Dean had sobbed, cradling it to his chest, not bothering to fight back. Not until John started in on Sammy. Then Dean called the cops, got John arrested, and was given a cast for his arm. No one had signed it but Sam. Dean still remembered that cute little misspelled name on his blue-casted-arm.

Ƨameul.

So adorable. He'd always wrote his _S's_ backwards. Dean smirked thinking back to it.

Pulling on some sweatpants, Dean stepped out of the bathroom, bumping to an awaiting Bones.

The dog always liked to wait outside the bathroom to make sure Dean was safe. It was just as cute. And reminded him of Sam.

Dean padded into the living room with bare feet, the dog trailing after him, pausing as a thought hit him.

He scratched Bone's head a couple of times. That soft fur dogs had felt so good on his callused fingers. Collapsing onto the floor, he wrapped his arms around the dog and pulled it onto his lap. Pressing his face into Bone's fur and inhaling, he poured every good thought and every ounce of love he could muster into this hug he was sharing with Sam's dog. His dog. Bones was _his_. And he couldn't keep calling it Sam's. Sam was gone. Dean was still here. And he loved this dog.

"I love you, Bones," He said, kissing the dog's head. 

Bones looked up at him, big eyes full of unconditional love. 

"I know you were sad after Sam died," He's voice went scratchy, but he kept talking, "I was pretty depressed myself. But it wasn't fair of me not to love you right. Not to hug you, pet you, and show you just as much affection as you tried to show me. I know I fed you, took care of you, and did everything else. But I was just going through the motions. And it wasn't what you needed most. You needed someone to comfort you. And I needed someone to comfort me. And we could've leaned on each other. But I didn't want to admit that he was gone. And that you were the only thing he'd left behind. . ."

Bones rubbed his head against Dean's chest. Dean smiled slightly, scratching that spot right at the base of his tail.

"It's going to be different now," Dean promised, "I have something to live for again."

Bones tail wagged and his tongue fell happily out of his mouth. 

"This revolution. . ." Dean swallowed, "I'm going to make Sammy proud."

The TV was still on. He went to turn it off but paused at the grave expression on the anchor's face.

"A new stage has been reached, demonstrating beyond all doubt that these defective machines have become a real danger for American society. The time has come for us to destroy our machines. . . before they destroy us. Without the courage and the determination of the police, the machines would have reduced Kansas City to a state of chaos. . . The authorities have ordered all androids to be delivered to the nearest police station or army barracks immediately. If you are worried about your safety, dial the number on your screen and the authorities will come to collect your android. Under no circumstances should you try to destroy your android yourself. They are unpredictable and potentially violent."

Dean plopped down on his sofa, feeling bone-tired, the picture of Sam smiling at him from the hutch refected his own face back at him.

"Following the android crisis and the neutralization of all military androids, American forces in the Arctic have been forced to withdraw, leaving the way clear for the Russian army. But according to some sources, the Russian forces also seem to have mysteriously withdrawn. The Kremlin has made no comment for the moment but it is quite possible that the Russian army has been confronted with a similar crisis among its own androids. The Chairman of the United Nations has called for the organization of an international conference on the status of the Arctic. in any case, the danger of a third world war seems to have been ruled out. . . for the moment."

Well, that was good at least. Maybe the kids that were drafted would get to come home. Dean resumed watching.

"Despite the protests and recalls of all androids, some people are landing on the side of Angels having their own rights."

Of course, they were. Dean was. Sam would've been if he were alive.

"A human representative has stepped forward to speak for Angels, hoping to bring an actual court case to congress—but with Angels murdering cops on the street, murdering Cassie Robinson during a soundcheck, and vandalizing entire districts all over the country, there seems to be a lack of accountability when it comes to these android-on-human crimes," The news anchor continued grimly, "Now, broadcasting you live to a press conference held by the human representative, here is Sam Winchester, lawyer for androids and Angel rights alike."

Dean sat up, eyes widening and heart racing.

Sam was suddenly on the screen, long hair tied back in a pony-tail and the lower part of his face covered in stubble.

"When one thinks of civil rights, of a people fighting to be equal, of blatant bigotry and bias—I assume Angels aren't the first thing that comes to mind. They might not even be the hundredth thing. But I'm here to suggest a shift in that mentality," Sam looked so brave, so powerful, speaking into a microphone in front of a crowd of people, "As the appointed human diplomat of androids, I'm here to bridge any gaps that might've arisen from the failed attempt of a declaration of peace at Stull tower. As well as the attempted peaceful march, resulting in _too_ many lost lives. . ."

"Sammy?" Dean felt fall from his mouth.

But Sam couldn't hear him. He just resolved his gaunt face and said, "Please, raise your hands, and I will answer any questions."

A few seconds of silence later, Sam pointed into the crowd and a female voice piqued through the microphone, "Are you seriously suggesting that treating androids like machines is an act of racism? And on that topic, are you suggesting that androids _are_ a race?" 

Sam pinched his mouth into a straight line, "Yes—that's exactly what I'm suggesting. Next question?"

He pointed to another hand, a male voice spoke this time, "What is the essential biological meaning of race? Do Angels fit that definition?"

"Well, we can't fit Angels into that previously assigned outline," Sam remained passive, obviously fed up with the leading questions, "They're not biological. But they are a new intelligent species. And we should treat them as such. Meaning, they're susceptible to hate speech, assaultive, and dissent. They are their own race. Their own people. And the fact that I have to stand here and speak for them is insulting. And regarding that, why do dominant groups suppress knowledge produced by oppressed groups? Yes, Angels _are_ oppressed. It's obvious by your questions that you don't have a high opinion of them. I'm willing to answer any questions you might have. But if they continue to be purposefully offensive and prejudiced, then I'll refuse to acknowledge you even spoke."

Moments later, another hand rose. "Why should we grant freedom to smarter, stronger, and better beings? Wouldn't that, in the long run, hurt our chances at survival? With natural selection, humans would go extinct. We wouldn't be at the top of the food chain any longer. . ."

"If you're worried about Angels being the end of the human race, I think you should direct that worry to more threatening man-made creations," Sam said indignantly, "Other modern inventions, besides androids, more so attitudes and politics, have devastated our ecology and planet. Hundreds of animals and plants are now endangered species. Climatic change and global warming are imperiling a viable life. Very sophisticated weapons of mass destruction are usable with a press of a button and war has become a very profitable business. You want to talk about a real crisis? Try the current state of our government."

Dean was entrenched in the elegant words—so much so, he missed his phone ringing.

"Next question?" Sam raised a brow.

"The president has suggested setting up camps to contain Angels and neutralize them. How do you feel about this?"

"I feel as if our country is turning into Nazi Germany," Sam said irritably. "Next?"

"How are we expected to just start treating androids like equals?"

"The same way our great grandparents did. . ." Sam paused slightly, continuing bitterly, "Maybe not the exact same way. If we could skip the apartheid, segregation, humiliation, and Jim Crow laws—that'd be appreciated. Androids don't just want the end of their slavery. They want equal rights. And that's what I'm fighting for. What we're all fighting for."

Dean exhaled shakily.

Sam finished with, "That's all I have time for now."

The imaged flickered back to the reporter from before, "Well, after that unusual show, I can only say this—America? It's time to pray."

Dean startled when his phone rang again.

Looking down at it, he could barely read Ellen's name. But he thumbed the icon and picked up, "Yeah?"

"Boy, you got your TV on?" She asked hectically.

"Yeah," He repeated.

She asked gently, "Are you okay?"

"I, uh, don't know," Dean said numbly.

"Was that Sam?" Ellen hedged.

Dean clenched his fist around the phone. He thought about what Charlie said. Modeling new androids from the dead. He felt sick to his stomach. Chest expanding rapidly along with his breathing. Head starting to spin as he lost oxygen. Everything was blurry. He was so damn dizzy. Falling back into the couch, he closed his eyes and started to hyperventilate.

"I. . ." Dean trailed off, "I can't, Ellen."

"Of course," She said, motherly, "Honey, listen, I need you to calm your breathing down."

"I can't," He said again, shaking all over. "Sammy. . ."

"Dean?" She exclaimed frantically. "Dean?"

"Sam," Was all he could muster, before slipping into darkness.


	15. Sharp Dressed Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of a panic attack, strong homophobic language, mention of terrorism  
> no beta this time!

Someone shook his shoulder, a hand coming down to cup the side of his face.

"Dean?" A feminine voice said urgently. "Dean. . ."

He tried to open his eyes but they felt glued shut—so he brought a hand up to help pry them open. Everything was fuzzy like he was looking through dirty glass. And then, after blinking a few dozen times, things smoothed out.

Blonde curls were the first thing he confidently saw.

"Jo?" Dean grunted, bringing a hand up to his pounding forehead. His ears were pulsating, too. Everything too bright and loud. That clock in the kitchen. Ticking like swings of a hammer on metal. And his jaw was tight, popping when he moved his lips, sore liked he'd been subconsciously clenching it. Dean brought his hand down from his brow to rub at his jaw, wincing when the familiar pounding feeling moved down beneath his fingers and shot to the back of his skull. Fuckin' bad migraine.

She scowled at him, tear tracks still evident on her cheeks, "Hey, fuckface—you scared me the shit outta me."

"Yeah?" He sat up slowly, blood rushing from his head and making him dizzy. "Well, obviously I'm just peachy."

"Dean," Jo sat back on her haunches, watching him with wide, wary eyes, "You fuckin' blacked out. Like, you had a panic attack so serious your body shut down. Full-on catatonic. That hasn't happened since Sam died. . ."

"Didn't ya' hear? Sammy's as right as rain," Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His entire body was aching like he had the flu or something. Joints in his fingers. His jaw. That soft spot behind his ears. If he didn't know any better, he'd say he probably was dying. Or suffering from a particularly bad hangover. But he'd skipped out on drinks last night. And the whole death thing? Well, there'd probably be a lot less aching and a lot more vomiting up blood.

She frowned. "Mom mentioned that."

"Ellen called you?" Dean guessed.

"Sure did," Jo nodded, "Said you passed out after seeing Sam on the big screen. Asked me to come and check on you."

"Sounds about right."

Dean still wasn't processing the fact that S _am might be alive_. It hurt his brain. And his heart.

"Are you guys positive it was him? I kinda find it hard to believe Sam's just been faking his death for over a year."

Charlie's words echoed in his mind. Modeling androids after the dead. Dean felt something bubble up his throat, sour and painful. Like acid reflux. It consumed his chest. Settling down in the pit of his stomach like a heap of rocks. Heavy and sharp. Stabbing like a knife in the gut. Holy fucking shit. He was so damn sick. If this was what he thought it was—no, Sam couldn't be an Angel. They said on the news that he was a human representative. They'd surely check something like that. Right?

He looked at Jo's expecting face, muttering, "I have no fuckin' clue. But they introduced him as Sam Winchester."

Jo bit her lip, looking down at her watch, "You have work soon, right?"

It _couldn't_ be morning already. He looked, too. Fuck. How long had he been out? "Yeah," He said, disturbed.

"Call Bobby," She advised. "Stay home sick today."

Dean actually considered it. Shaking his head, "I can't. Jo, we're so damn close on this case."

"Is it really more important than your mental health?" She asked, exasperated.

Was a civil war more important than his own wellbeing? "Yes," He said without hesitation. 

She sighed. "Okay."

"Okay?" Dean hadn't expected her to give in so easily.

"But I'm staying," She cast a look around his living room, "It's gross in here. How longs it been since you washed dishes?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Been a little busy lately."

"Well, you go to work and lemme clean up alright?" She gave him a determined stare that stumped all urge in him to argue.

"If you wanna waste your day, be my guest," Dean said, "But I won't be back home till late. Maybe after midnight. Depending on if there's another android attack."

Jo curled her lip at the words _android attack_. "Fuckin' junkless assholes."

"You wouldn't say that to Charlie," Dean said, standing up and straightening out his nap-clothes. He needed to change into his uniform. No shower, though. Maybe a shave, since there was some unfortunate stubble on his neck and chin. He hated how reddish it was. He looked like fuckin' Kris Kringle with a beard. "Actually, if I'm remembering correctly, you _blush_ around her."

"Charlie is as much an Angel as I am," Jo laughed. "I've literally never seen her act like a machine."

Dean thought about that for a second. "Guess she was programmed not to," He said.

Jo didn't look convinced. "Maybe."

Dean mused, "Castiel is a pretty piss-poor excuse for an Angel, too."

"Good for him," Jo said.

"They even reprogrammed him and. . ." Dean swallowed a mouthful of spit, correcting, "and _it_ didn't seem emotionless."

"Well, I've only met him once," Jo said gently, "But you're a good judge of character, so I believe you."

"I mean, in the beginning, Cas had a stick up his ass."

Dean threw all caution to the wind. Fuck non-possessive pronouns. He was tired of the dehumanizing bullshit.

"Yeah?" She noticed the mid-conversation change, eyes twinged with interest.

Dean nodded, continuing, "But even then, there was always _something_ about him. Sass or cheek. But it was there, y'know? He never fucking follows my orders. And he gets exasperated at me. And he has these moments of humanity. Empathy. But other times, he's stonecold. Like, he shot these two androids at Heaven's Garden. But they were just defending themselves. And sometimes, I wonder if he regrets that. Especially after he refused to shoot the archangel at Chuck's."

Jo didn't know what he was talking about, but she gave him a rueful smile, "You're so fuckin' gone, huh?"

Dean paused. Was he? He _had_ jerked off last night to an imaginary guy that was suspiciously similar-looking to Castiel. A look-alike, if you will. But that was just an attraction. He'd known since he'd first met the Angel that Castiel was beautiful. He tried to ignore it multiple times. But he'd just let loose last night. And he didn't regret it. But were there real feelings attached to those lusty ones? Dean didn't know.

"I don't know," He said honestly.

"Be careful," She said grimly. "And if you gotta go out on a call, please watch out—I don't want what happened to Benny to happen to you."

"I will," He promised. "And I've got a good partner. He'll watch my back."

"I bet," She smirked.

Dean chuckled a little, scrubbing a hand through his hair, "Lemme go get ready, Joanna Beth."

"It's like you _want_ me to slap you," She put a hand on her hip, eyebrow raised.

"Only if you're wearing a Zorro mask," He joke-flirted. 

She narrowed her eyes, "Go get dressed, Winchester."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said, saluting. 

Wandering to his bedroom, he smiled slightly at Bones laying on his mattress. At least someone made it to bed last night. Dean grabbed some clothes from his dresser, tucking them under his armpit, and walking to his bathroom. His cast felt like two tons on his arm. Like it was weighing him down. He glared down at it, exhaling, dressing and shaving his face, smoothing out the clothes and brushing his teeth.

As he swashed the mouthwash in his mouth, Dean looked in the medicine cabinet's mirror, inspecting the bruise around his neck. He glared at it for a few moments, gargling and spitting out the minty liquid. With a clean mouth, he brought his hand up to prod the bruise. More clinical than he'd done last night. Pointer finger trailing along the line of the bruise. It actually wasn't a blinding dark purple smear anymore. More so, yellow and blotchy. Still entirely ugly, but still healing. Dean didn't know what else he could do about it, the memory of the android nearly killing him fresh in his mind, so he tucked away his toothbrush, mouthwash, and razer. 

Walking back to the living room, Dean secured his holster around his chest. 

Jo observed him, picking up dishes and setting them in the sink, "Say hi to Charlie for me, would'ja?"

"Sure thing," Dean said, slipping into his shoes, tying them, and grabbing his keys, "Don't wait up."

She went back to cleaning, throwing a hand up, "I'll text you later, Dean."

Dean nodded, checking his back pocket for his phone. It was there. Leaving, he made sure to lock the door. Just in case.

Walking to his garage, he ran a hand down the flank of the Impala, smiling slightly, "Hey, baby. . ."

He'd driven her the other night. But it wasn't the same. He hadn't brought the cruiser home. It'd been done out of necessity. Not like now, when he'd chosen to get behind her wheel. Sliding in on her leather seat, the smell so comforting, he turned the ignition. Looking in the rearview mirror, he spotted the green army man Sam had shoved in the ash holder. It made his nose feel all hot, something salty in the back of his throat, like he was about to cry. So he turned on the radio, his cassette tapes blasting Metallica and ZZ Top, peeling from his driveway with a sharp smell of rubber.

Passing through the town, relegated to back roads, and witnessing _too_ many trashed androids—Dean got to the station thirty minutes late. 

Parking, rubbing his hands on his thighs nervously, he walked briskly to the door.

Unsurprisingly, Bobby was sitting at his desk, fingers steepled, an irritable glower on his face.

Castiel was standing next to him. Like a statue. They both looked restless.

Dean hurried over, ignoring all the curious looks thrown his way, "Captain?"

Bobby stood, arms crossed, "Lieutenant? You're late."

"Yeah, well, had a pretty shitty night," Dean said.

Bobby seemed to except that as he didn't push the issue further, "I've got news for both of you."

Castiel came to stand next to Dean, tilting his head, "What is it, sir?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to joke, "Let's hope it's good news, huh?"

Bobby frowned. "Well. . ."

"Oh, fuck, it's not," Dean grimaced. "What's wrong?"

"You're off the case. The FBI is taking over," Bobby said.

Dean gaped, "What? But we're onto something! We. . . We just need more time. I'm sure we can—"

"Boy, you don't get it. This ain't just another investigation, it's a fuckin' civil war," Bobby sighed, scratching a hand through his beard, "It's out of our hands now. I couldn't fight it if I wanted. Which I don't. We're talking about national security here. And that means its _way_ above your paygrade, Dean."

"Fuck that," Dean growled, "You can't just pull the plug now. Not when we're so close, Bobby."

Bobby looked pissed off. "You're always saying you can't stand Angels. You need to make up your mind, boy. I thought you'd be happy about this."

"Yeah, that was before I saw Sam, or someone who looked uncannily similar to Sam, on national TV doing a fucking press conference," Dean gritted his teeth, tossing his hands up in the air, not believing the way Bobby was shutting him down, "And we're about to crack the case. I _know_ we can solve it. For God's sake, Bobby, can't you back me up this one time?"

"There's nothing I can do," Bobby shook his head, "You're back on homicide and narcotics. Castiel'll return to Hostlife."

"You can't—"

"I'm sorry, Dean, but it's over," Bobby gave him one last once-over before turning and walking back to his office.

"Fuckin' narcotics," Dean snarled.

Castiel spoke then, equally frustrated, "We can't just give up like that."

"Preaching to the choir, Cas," Dean said acidulously. "But what else are we meant to do?"

"We. . ." Castiel clenched his fists, "We do what we're told, I suppose."

"So, you're going back to Hostlife?" Dean asked, disappointed.

"I have no choice," Castiel replied emotionlessly, "I'll be deactivated and analyzed to find out why I failed. . ."

Dean caught Castiel's eye, letting himself ramble all the thoughts he'd been keeping close to his chest, "What if we're on the wrong side, Cas? What if we're fighting against people who just wanna be free? Maybe this is for the best. I'm done fighting the inevitable. And I won't stand in the way of progress." The only thing he'd miss was talking with Castiel. Otherwise, this might be a good thing.

"They're not people," Castiel said automatically.

"That's what we say every time we want to oppress someone."

Castiel looked away abruptly, "Dean, I can't. . ."

"Can't?" Dean frowned, not understanding, "Can't what?"

Castiel remained silent, forehead wrinkled and breath coming out in uneven huffs.

"When you refused to kill Michael at Chuck's place," Dean reached his hand out, connecting his palm with Castiel's, interlocking their fingers, "You put yourself in his shoes. And back on the roof with Dash Crofts? You protected me. You risked your life to save mine. You put my life above the mission. You showed empathy, Cas. Empathy is a human emotion."

"I don't know why I did those things," Castiel said, squeezing their hands together. He looked up then, underneath long lashes, "But I know it hasn't always been easy. And I want you to know that I really appreciated working with you. That's not just my program talking, I—uh, I really mean that. At least, I think I do. And with a little more time, who knows. I'd like to think we might've even become friends."

Dean replied, "You _are_ my friend, Cas."

Castiel smiled. It was breathtaking. "Thank you, Dean."

 _Maybe we can keep in touch_ , was on the tip of his tongue.

But he saw someone over Castiel's shoulder. Instantly he was tense.

"Well, well, here comes Ketch, that motherfucker," Dean said flatly, "Sure don't waste any time at the FBI, huh?"

Castiel turned, looking at the wandering FBI agent and speaking softly, "We can't give up. I know the answer is in the evidence we collected. If Ketch takes it, it's all over."

"There's no choice," Dean sighed, "You heard Bobby, we're off the case."

"There is a choice," Castiel affirmed. "It's not a good choice, but it's a choice all the same. And you've got to help me, Lieutenant. I need more time so I can find a lead in the evidence we collected. I know the solution is in there. _Please_."

Dean frowned, "Listen, Cas. . ."

"No," Castiel suddenly looked afraid, "If I don't solve this case, HostLife will destroy me."

Exhaling slowly, Dean made sure, "And you don't want that?"

Shaking its head rapidly, "Five minutes. It's all I ask. Please, Dean."

The name clenched it. Made something in him warm. "Key to the basement is on my desk," Dean said, "Get a move on—I can't distract them forever."

"Thank you," Castiel said sincerely, turning on his heal and hightailing it out of sight.

Dean set his aim on Ketch, raising his voice and calling out, "Ketch! You fucking cocksucker!"

Ketch twisted his head around, a scowl on his face, "Winchester?"

"Yeah, I'm talking to you," Dean walked up to the guy, rearing his fist back, "This is what I think about you taking my case—"

His fist connected with Ketch's nose. There was a crunch. Immediately, another officer was on him.

"Calm down, Dean," It was Victor. "Stop struggling!"

Dean kept struggling. "Fuck off, Vic! Leave me alone! Give me another shot at that little prick!"

Ketch was holding a hand over his face, eyes wide, "He's totally lost it—that's gonna cost you your badge, you lunatic!"

"You know where you can stick my fuckin' badge?" Dean lunged again, only held back by Victor's sturdy arms.

"Come on, that's enough, Dean," Victor tried again.

Ketch started bounding towards Bobby's office, gushing blood, "I'm gonna bury you, Winchester. . . Shit, I think he broke my fucking nose."

As soon as he was out of sight, Dean quieted. Hopefully, Castiel made it. Otherwise, he was going to be suspended for nothing.

"I'm good, Vic," Dean said easily. 

Victor looked at him strangely, letting go of him. "You're a bold one, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean went to go look down the corridor where Castiel should've gone. "I'm a fuckin' emphasis."

Cresting around the corner, Dean cursed under his breath. Fuckin' Gordon. Must've followed Castiel like a goddamn duckling.

"Hey, Castiel! Where are you going? We don't need any plastic pricks around here. Or didn't anybody tell you?"

"I'm registering the evidence in my possession, but don't worry. I'm going to leave," Castiel said flatly. "Though I'm certainly going to miss our bromance."

Gordon turned red, "You son of a bitch! Go on then. Get a fucking move on. Fuckin' faggot androids."

Dean exhaled, so damn relieved. Fuckin' Gordon. Scurrying back around the corner, he tried to put distance between him and ground zero. Gordon would definitely become suspicious if he'd seen Dean standing there. He might even run after Castiel. That was the kind of petty the asshole was. Glancing up at the front desk, Dean realized this was the perfect opportunity to speak with Charlie. Ask her questions. And get further away from Gordon. Win, win, really.

Weaving through other cops, all with worried lines on their faces, Dean hastened to Charlie's desk.

"Hey, Red Rider," He said, making sure she was free before continuing, "How're you today?"

She looked up, saw it was him, and blanched. "Oh, Dean, hey. . ."

"Well, not exactly the warm welcoming I was expecting," Dean was perplexed at the reaction.

"No, uh," She shook her head, curls swinging wildly, "It's just, um, y'know. Your brother was on TV this morning, right?"

Dean rubbed his jaw, confirming, "Yeah, Sammy was front and center—apparently he's some big hotshot resistance-guy."

Charlie sucked in a shallow breath. "Hm, and he was presumed dead, right?"

Suddenly, he knew what she was working up to. "Oh, uh, you think he's an Angel, right?"

She shook her head, hesitating before saying, "Nah, it's just, that's a possibility, right?"

"I guess," Dean said. "What do you think?"

Charlie reached up, rubbing the spot where the LED was. Something smugged. Dean squinted at it. But his attention focused back on her face when she said, "I don't think he's an android, personally. I mean, we suspected that whoever helped Jack at Stull Tower was human, right? And then with the fake IDs. Um, rocker aliases. Does that seem like something Sam would do?"

"Sounds exactly like something he'd do," Dean recognized, something akin to hope was swelling in his chest. "But Stull Tower. . ."

"What about it?" Charlie tilted her head to the side.

"That was terrorism," Dean said.

"It was unfortunate," Charlie said. "Cassie shouldn't have died."

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

"But she was only shot cause she was running to alert people, right?" Charlie asked.

"Not an excuse," Dean shook his head.

"Of course not," Charlie agreed, continuing carefully, "But to an android? Maybe a bitter one? Or one that was forced into sex slavery? They might try anything to keep their whereabouts a secret. To help Jack spread his message. I'm just saying, in their shoes, they might think they're actions were justified. Not that they were. Cassie shouldn't have died. But Angels have a very strange way of absolving themselves. Especially disobedient ones. Like a wounded animal. They lash out."

Dean didn't really accept that. "And Benny? Was that justified?"

"They had good intentions," She maintained. "That march was meant to be peaceful."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Charlie," Dean said.

"So, you think your brother is wrong?" She added, "About fallen Angels, that is."

"I think there's a lot of mixed messages," Dean answered. "It's meant to be peaceful, but people keep dying."

"That's usually what happens," Charlie frowned. "Even back in the '60s. During the civil rights movement."

Dean bit his lip, "I just wish it was different." And that sounded so fucking pathetic and stupid. 

She looked at him sympathetically, "Me, too."

Suddenly, Castiel was there, hand on Dean's shoulder, "Lieutenant?"

Charlie said, "Goodbye, Dean." And then turned back to her ringing phone.

After Castiel had dragged him away from prying ears, they just stared at each other.

Dean, not in the mood for the Nicholas Sparks stares, raised his brows at Castiel expectingly, "Did'ja get what you needed?"

"Yes," Castiel said, lowering his voice, "The coordinates to the Bunker."

"Well, what're we waiting for?" Dean forced himself to smile, "Road trip! Lemme pack some trail mix." 

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT (12/3/19): I took away the "Rape/Non-con" archive warning and instead put "Rape/Non-con elements" in the regular tags. I did this because neither Dean or Cas experience sexual assault in this fic. There IS sexual assault and rape but it all happens off-screen, is described once, and is only mentioned in passing otherwise. If you want more detail, comment and I'll clarify further.
> 
> EDIT (12/5/19): I've decided to start adding trigger warnings to the notes of each chapter. If you want to remain spoiler-free going forward, skip over the author notes that come after "tw".
> 
> EDIT (1/31/20): THANK YOU FOR 4k HITS AND 200 KUDOS! 
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! I appreciate the feedback.


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